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
wanderer" target="_blank" title="n.流浪者">
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."
Karain spoke to me.
"You know us. You have lived with us. Why?--we cannot know; but you
understand our sorrows and our thoughts. You have lived with my
people, and you understand our desires and our fears. With you I will
go. To your land--to your people. To your people, who live in
unbelief; to whom day is day, and night is night--nothing more,
because you understand all things seen, and
despise all else! To
your land of unbelief, where the dead do not speak, where every man is
wise, and alone--and at peace!"
"Capital description," murmured Hollis, with the
flicker of a smile.
Karain hung his head.
"I can toil, and fight--and be
faithful," he whispered, in a weary
tone, "but I cannot go back to him who waits for me on the shore. No!
Take me with you . . . Or else give me some of your strength--of your
unbelief . . . A charm! . . ."
He seemed utterly exhausted.
"Yes, take him home," said Hollis, very low, as if debating with
himself. "That would be one way. The ghosts there are in society, and
talk affably to ladies and gentlemen, but would scorn a naked human
being--like our
princely friend. . . . Naked . . . Flayed! I should
say. I am sorry for him. Impossible--of course. The end of all this
shall be," he went on, looking up at us--"the end of this shall be,
that some day he will run amuck
amongst his
faithful subjects and send
'ad patres' ever so many of them before they make up their minds to
the disloyalty of knocking him on the head."
I nodded. I thought it more than
probable that such would be the end
of Karain. It was
evident that he had been hunted by his thought along
the very limit of human
endurance, and very little more pressing was
needed to make him
swerve over into the form of
madnesspeculiar to
his race. The
respite he had during the old man's life made the return
of the
tormentunbearable. That much was clear.
He lifted his head suddenly; we had imagined for a moment that he had
been dozing.
"Give me your
protection--or your strength!" he cried. "A charm . . .
a
weapon!"
Again his chin fell on his breast. We looked at him, then looked at
one another with
suspicious awe in our eyes, like men who come