The white man came out of the hut in time to see the enormous conflagration of sunset put out by the swift and stealthy shadows that, rising like a black and impalpable vapour above the tree-tops, spread over the heaven, extinguishing the crimson glow of floating clouds and the red brilliance of departing daylight.  In a few moments all the stars came out above the intense blackness of the earth and the great lagoon gleaming suddenly with reflected lights resembled an oval patch of night sky flung down into the hopeless and abysmal night of the wilderness.  The white man had some supper out of the basket, then collecting a few sticks that lay about the platform, made up a small fire, not for warmth, but for the sake of the smoke, which would keep off the mosquitos.  He wrapped himself in the blankets and sat with his back against the reed wall of the house, smoking thoughtfully.

Arsat came through the doorway with noiseless steps and squatted down by the fire.  The white man moved his outstretched legs a little.

“She breathes,” said Arsat in a low voice, anticipating the expected question.  “She breathes and burns as if with a great fire.  She speaks not; she hears not—­and burns!”

He paused for a moment, then asked in a quiet, incurious tone—­

“Tuan . . . will she die?”

The white man moved his shoulders uneasily and muttered in a hesitating manner—­

“If such is her fate.”

“No, Tuan,” said Arsat, calmly.  “If such is my fate.  I hear, I see, I wait.  I remember . . .  Tuan, do you remember the old days?  Do you remember my brother?”

“Yes,” said the white man.  The Malay rose suddenly and went in.  The other, sitting still outside, could hear the voice in the hut.  Arsat said:  “Hear me!  Speak!” His words were succeeded by a complete silence.  “O Diamelen!” he cried, suddenly.  After that cry there was a deep sigh.  Arsat came out and sank down again in his old place.

They sat in silence before the fire.  There was no sound within the house, there was no sound near them; but far away on the lagoon they could hear the voices of the boatmen ringing fitful and distinct on the calm water.  The fire in the bows of the sampan shone faintly in the distance with a hazy red glow.  Then it died out.  The voices ceased.  The land and the water slept invisible, unstirring and mute.  It was as though there had been nothing left in the world but the glitter of stars streaming, ceaseless and vain, through the black stillness of the night.

The white man gazed straight before him into the darkness with wide-open eyes.  The fear and fascination, the inspiration and the wonder of death—­of death near, unavoidable, and unseen, soothed the unrest of his race and stirred the most indistinct, the most intimate of his thoughts.  The ever-ready suspicion of evil, the gnawing suspicion that lurks in our hearts, flowed out into the stillness round him—­into