n never left me. We travelled together.
We were welcomed by the great; his wisdom and my courage are remembered
where your strength, O white men, is forgotten! We served the Sultan
of Sula. We fought the Spaniards. There were victories, hopes, defeats,
sorrow, blood, women's tears . . . What for? . . . We fled. We collected
wanderers of a warlike race and came here to fight again. The rest you
know. I am the ruler of a conquered land, a lover of war and danger,
a fighter and a plotter. But the old man has died, and I am again the
slave of the dead. He is not here now to drive away the reproachful
shade--to silence the lifeless voice! The power of his charm has died
with him. And I know fear; and I hear the whisper, 'Kill! kill! kill!'
. . . Have I not killed enough? . . ."

For the first time that night a sudden convulsion of madness and rage
passed over his face. His wavering glances darted here and there like
scared birds in a thunderstorm. He jumped up, shouting--

"By the spirits that drink blood: by the spirits that cry in the night:
by all the spirits of fury, misfortune, and death, I swear--some day I
will strike into every heart I meet--I . . ."

He looked so dangerous that we all three leaped to our feet, and Hollis,
with the back of his hand, sent the kriss flying off the table. I
believe we shouted together. It was a short scare, and the next moment
he was again composed in his chair, with three white men standing over
him in rather foolish attitudes. We felt a little ashamed of ourselves.
Jackson picked up the kriss, and, after an inquiring glance at me, gave
it to him. He received it with a stately inclination of the head and
stuck it in the twist of his sarong, with punctilious care to give
his weapon a pacific position. Then he looked up at us with an austere
smile. We were abashed and reproved. Hollis sat sideways on the table
and, holding his chin in his hand, scrutinized him in pensive silence. I
said--

"You must abide with your people. They need you. And there is
forgetfulness in life. Even the dead cease to speak in time."

"Am I a woman, to forget long years before an eyelid has had the time
to beat twice?" he exclaimed, with bitter resentment. He startled me.
It was amazing. To him his life--that cruel mirage of love and
peace--seemed as real, as undeniable, as theirs would be to any saint,
philosopher, or fool of us all. Hollis muttered--

"You won't soothe him with your platitudes."

Kar