"I saw her! The consoler of sleepless nights, of weary days; the
companion of troubled years! I saw her! She looked straight at the

place where I crouched. She was there as I had seen her for years--a
faithfulwanderer" target="_blank" title="n.流浪者">wanderer by my side. She looked with sad eyes and had smiling

lips; she looked at me . . . Smiling lips! Had I not promised that she
should not die!

"She was far off and I felt her near. Her touch caressed me, and her
voice murmured, whispered above me, around me. 'Who shall be thy

companion, who shall console thee if I die?' I saw a flowering thicket
to the left of her stir a little . . . Matara was ready . . . I cried

aloud--'Return!'
"She leaped up; the box fell; the pearls streamed at her feet. The big

Dutchman by her side rolled menacing eyes through the still sunshine.
The gun went up to my shoulder. I was kneeling and I was firm--firmer

than the trees, the rocks, the mountains. But in front of the steady
long barrel the fields, the house, the earth, the sky swayed to and

fro like shadows in a forest on a windy day. Matara burst out of the
thicket; before him the petals of torn flowers whirled high as if

driven by a tempest. I heard her cry; I saw her spring with open arms
in front of the white man. She was a woman of my country and of noble

blood. They are so! I heard her shriek of anguish and fear--and all
stood still! The fields, the house, the earth, the sky stood

still--while Matara leaped at her with uplifted arm. I pulled the
trigger, saw a spark, heard nothing; the smoke drove back into my

face, and then I could see Matara roll over head first and lie with
stretched arms at her feet. Ha! A sure shot! The sunshine fell on my

back colder than the running water. A sure shot! I flung the gun after
the shot. Those two stood over the dead man as though they had been

bewitched by a charm. I shouted at her, 'Live and remember!' Then for
a time I stumbled about in a cold darkness.

"Behind me there were great shouts, the running of many feet; strange
men surrounded me, cried meaningless words into my face, pushed me,

dragged me, supported me . . . I stood before the big Dutchman: he
stared as if bereft of his reason. He wanted to know, he talked fast,

he spoke of gratitude, he offered me food, shelter, gold--he asked
many questions. I laughed in his face. I said, 'I am a Korinchi

traveller from Perak over there, and know nothing of that dead man. I
was passing along the path when I heard a shot, and your senseless

people rushed out and dragged me here.' He lifted his arms, he
wondered, he could not believe, he could not understand, he clamoured

in his own tongue! She had her arms clasped round his neck, and over
her shoulder stared back at me with wide eyes. I smiled and looked at

her; I smiled and waited to hear the sound of her voice. The white man
asked her suddenly. 'Do you know him?' I listened--my life was in my

ears! She looked at me long, she looked at me with unflinching eyes,
and said aloud, 'No! I never saw him before.' . . . What! Never

before? Had she forgotten already? Was it possible? Forgotten already
--after so many years--so many years of wandering, of companionship,

of trouble, of tender words! Forgotten already! . . . I tore myself
out from the hands that held me and went away without a word . . .

They let me go.
"I was weary. Did I sleep? I do not know. I remember walking upon a

broad path under a clear starlight; and that strange country seemed so
big, the rice-fields so vast, that, as I looked around, my head swam

with the fear of space. Then I saw a forest. The joyousstarlight was
heavy upon me. I turned off the path and entered the forest, which was

very sombre and very sad."
V

Karain's tone had been getting lower and lower, as though he had been
going away from us, till the last words sounded faint but clear, as if

shouted on a calm day from a very great distance. He moved not. He
stared fixedly past the motionless head of Hollis, who faced him, as

still as himself. Jackson had turned sideways, and with elbow on the
table shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand. And I looked on,

surprised and moved; I looked at that man, loyal to a vision, betrayed
by his dream, spurned by his illusion, and coming to us unbelievers

for help--against a thought. The silence was profound; but it seemed
full of noiseless phantoms, of things sorrowful, shadowy, and mute, in

whose invisible presence the firm, pulsating beat of the two ship's
chronometers ticking off steadily the seconds of Greenwich Time seemed

to me a protection and a relief. Karain stared stonily; and looking at
his rigid figure, I thought of his wanderings, of that obscure Odyssey

of revenge, of all the men that wanderamongstillusions faithful,
faithless; of the illusions that give joy, that give sorrow, that give

pain, that give peace; of the invincible illusions that can make life
and death appear serene, inspiring, tormented, or ignoble.

A murmur was heard; that voice from outside seemed to flow out of a
dreaming world into the lamp-light of the cabin. Karain was speaking.

"I lived in the forest.
"She came no more. Never! Never once! I lived alone. She had

forgotten. It was well. I did not want her; I wanted no one. I found
an abandoned house in an old clearing. Nobody came near. Sometimes I

heard in the distance the voices of people going along a path. I
slept; I rested; there was wild rice, water from a running stream--and

peace! Every night I sat alone by my small fire before the hut. Many
nights passed over my head.

"Then, one evening, as I sat by my fire after having eaten, I looked
down on the ground and began to remember my wanderings. I lifted my

head. I had heard no sound, no rustle, no footsteps--but I lifted my
head. A man was coming towards me across the small clearing. I waited.

He came up without a greeting and squatted down into the firelight.
Then he turned his face to me. It was Matara. He stared at me fiercely

with his big sunken eyes. The night was cold; the heat died suddenly
out of the fire, and he stared at me. I rose and went away from there,

leaving him by the fire that had no heat.
"I walked all that night, all next day, and in the evening made up a

big blaze and sat down--to wait for him. He had not come into the
light. I heard him in the bushes here and there, whispering,

whispering. I understood at last--I had heard the words before, 'You
are my friend--kill with a sure shot.'

"I bore it as long as I could--then leaped away, as on this very night
I leaped from my stockade and swam to you. I ran--I ran crying like a

child left alone and far from the houses. He ran by my side, without
footsteps, whispering, whispering--invisible and heard. I sought

people--I wanted men around me! Men who had not died! And again we two
wandered. I sought danger, violence, and death. I fought in the Atjeh

war, and a brave people wondered at the valiance of a stranger. But we
were two; he warded off the blows . . . Why? I wanted peace, not life.

And no one could see him; no one knew--I dared tell no one. At times
he would leave me, but not for long; then he would return and whisper

or stare. My heart was torn with a strange fear, but could not die.
Then I met an old man.

"You all knew him. People here called him my sorcerer, my servant and
sword-bearer; but to me he was father, mother, protection, refuge and

peace. When I met him he was returning from a pilgrimage" target="_blank" title="n.朝圣；远游；人生历程">pilgrimage, and I heard
him intoning the prayer of sunset. He had gone to the holy place with

his son, his son's wife, and a little child; and on their return, by
the favour of the Most High, they all died: the strong man, the young

mother, the little child--they died; and the old man reached his
country alone. He was a pilgrimserene and pious, very wise and very

lonely. I told him all. For a time we lived together. He said over me
words of compassion, of wisdom, of prayer. He warded from me the shade

of the dead. I begged him for a charm that would make me safe. For a
long time he refused; but at last, with a sigh and a smile, he gave me

one. Doubtless he could command a spirit stronger than the unrest of
my dead friend, and again I had peace; but I had become restless, and

a lover of turmoil and danger. The old man never left me. We travelled