He drew a long breath and went on in a dreamy tone: 

“In a little while I shall see clear enough to strike—­to strike.  But she has died, and . . . now . . . darkness.”

He flung his arms wide open, let them fall along his body, then stood still with unmoved face and stony eyes, staring at the sun.  The white man got down into his canoe.  The polers ran smartly along the sides of the boat, looking over their shoulders at the beginning of a weary journey.  High in the stern, his head muffled up in white rags, the juragan sat moody, letting his paddle trail in the water.  The white man, leaning with both arms over the grass roof of the little cabin, looked back at the shining ripple of the boat’s wake.  Before the sampan passed out of the lagoon into the creek he lifted his eyes.  Arsat had not moved.  He stood lonely in the searching sunshine; and he looked beyond the great light of a cloudless day into the darkness of a world of illusions.