But he realized clearly the difference between that abstract thing, the tribe, and that most concrete of things, the individual.  The tribe persisted.  Its members passed.  The tribe was a memory of the history and habits of all previous members, which the living members carried on until they passed and became history and memory in the intangible sum that was the tribe.  He, as a member, soon or late, and late was very near, must pass.  But pass to what?  There was the rub.  And so it was, on occasion, that he ordered all forth from his big grass house, and, alone with his problem, lowered from the roof-beams the matting-wrapped parcels of heads of men he had once seen live and who had passed into the mysterious nothingness of death.

Not as a miser had he collected these heads, and not as a miser counting his secret hoard did he ponder these heads, unwrapped, held in his two hands or lying on his knees.  He wanted to know.  He wanted to know what he guessed they might know, now that they had long since gone into the darkness that rounds the end of life.

Various were the heads Bashti thus interrogated—­in his hands, on his knees, in his dim-lighted grasshouse, while the overhead sun blazed down and the fading south-east sighed through the palm-fronds and breadfruit branches.  There was the head of a Japanese—­the only one he had ever seen or heard of.  Before he was born it had been taken by his father.  Ill-cured it was, and battered and marred with ancientness and rough usage.  Yet he studied its features, decided that it had once had two lips as live as his own and a mouth as vocal and hungry as his had often been in the past.  Two eyes and a nose it had, a thatched crown of roof, and a pair of ears like to his own.  Two legs and a body it must once have had, and desires and lusts.  Heats of wrath and of love, so he decided, had also been its once on a time when it never thought to die.

A head that amazed him much, whose history went back before his father’s and grandfather’s time, was the head of a Frenchman, although Bashti knew it not.  Nor did he know it was the head of La Perouse, the doughty old navigator, who had left his bones, the bones of his crews, and the bones of his two frigates, the Astrolabe and the Boussole, on the shores of the cannibal Solomons.  Another head—­for Bashti was a confirmed head-collector—­went back two centuries before La Perouse to Alvaro de Mendana, the Spaniard.  It was the head of one of Mendana’s armourers, lost in a beach scrimmage to one of Bashti’s remote ancestors.

Still another head, the history of which was vague, was a white woman’s head.  What wife of what navigator there was no telling.  But earrings of gold and emerald still clung to the withered ears, and the hair, two-thirds of a fathom long, a shimmering silk of golden floss, flowed from the scalp that covered what had once been the wit and will of her that Bashti reasoned had in her ancient time been quick with love in the arms of man.