“Oh! the strength of unbelievers!”

“There’s no one here but you—­and we three,” said Hollis, quietly.  He reclined with his head supported on elbow and did not budge.

“I know,” said Karain.  “He has never followed me here.  Was not the wise man ever by my side?  But since the old wise man, who knew of my trouble, has died, I have heard the voice every night.  I shut myself up—­for many days—­in the dark.  I can hear the sorrowful murmurs of women, the whisper of the wind, of the running waters; the clash of weapons in the hands of faithful men, their footsteps—­and his voice! . . .  Near . . .  So!  In my ear!  I felt him near . . .  His breath passed over my neck.  I leaped out without a cry.  All about me men slept quietly.  I ran to the sea.  He ran by my side without footsteps, whispering, whispering old words—­whispering into my ear in his old voice.  I ran into the sea; I swam off to you, with my kriss between my teeth.  I, armed, I fled before a breath—­to you.  Take me away to your land.  The wise old man has died, and with him is gone the power of his words and charms.  And I can tell no one.  No one.  There is no one here faithful enough and wise enough to know.  It is only near you, unbelievers, that my trouble fades like a mist under the eye of day.”

He turned to me.

“With you I go!” he cried in a contained voice.  “With you, who know so many of us.  I want to leave this land—­my people . . . and him—­there!”

He pointed a shaking finger at random over his shoulder.  It was hard for us to bear the intensity of that undisclosed distress.  Hollis stared at him hard.  I asked gently—­

“Where is the danger?”

“Everywhere outside this place,” he answered, mournfully.  “In every place where I am.  He waits for me on the paths, under the trees, in the place where I sleep—­everywhere but here.”

He looked round the little cabin, at the painted beams, at the tarnished varnish of bulkheads; he looked round as if appealing to all its shabby strangeness, to the disorderly jumble of unfamiliar things that belong to an inconceivable life of stress, of power, of endeavour, of unbelief—­to the strong life of white men, which rolls on irresistible and hard on the edge of outer darkness.  He stretched out his arms as if to embrace it and us.  We waited.  The wind and rain had ceased, and the stillness of the night round the schooner was as dumb and complete as if a dead world had been laid to rest in a grave of clouds.  We expected him to speak.  The necessity within him tore at his lips.  There are those who say that a native will not speak to a white man.  Error.  No man will speak to his master; but to a wanderer and a friend, to him who does not come to teach or to rule, to him who asks for nothing and accepts all things, words are spoken by the camp-fires, in the shared solitude of the sea, in riverside villages, in resting-places surrounded by forests—­words are spoken that take no account of race or colour.  One heart speaks—­another one listens; and the earth, the sea, the sky, the passing wind and the stirring leaf, hear also the futile tale of the burden of life.