He spoke at last.  It is impossible to convey the effect of his story.  It is undying, it is but a memory, and its vividness cannot be made clear to another mind, any more than the vivid emotions of a dream.  One must have seen his innate splendour, one must have known him before—­looked at him then.  The wavering gloom of the little cabin; the breathless stillness outside, through which only the lapping of water against the schooner’s sides could be heard; Hollis’s pale face, with steady dark eyes; the energetic head of Jackson held up between two big palms, and with the long yellow hair of his beard flowing over the strings of the guitar lying on the table; Karain’s upright and motionless pose, his tone—­all this made an impression that cannot be forgotten.  He faced us across the table.  His dark head and bronze torso appeared above the tarnished slab of wood, gleaming and still as if cast in metal.  Only his lips moved, and his eyes glowed, went out, blazed again, or stared mournfully.  His expressions came straight from his tormented heart.  His words sounded low, in a sad murmur as of running water; at times they rang loud like the clash of a war-gong—­or trailed slowly like weary travellers—­or rushed forward with the speed of fear.

IV

This is, imperfectly, what he said—­

“It was after the great trouble that broke the alliance of the four states of Wajo.  We fought amongst ourselves, and the Dutch watched from afar till we were weary.  Then the smoke of their fire-ships was seen at the mouth of our rivers, and their great men came in boats full of soldiers to talk to us of protection and peace.  We answered with caution and wisdom, for our villages were burnt, our stockades weak, the people weary, and the weapons blunt.  They came and went; there had been much talk, but after they went away everything seemed to be as before, only their ships remained in sight from our coast, and very soon their traders came amongst us under a promise of safety.  My brother was a Ruler, and one of those who had given the promise.  I was young then, and had fought in the war, and Pata Matara had fought by my side.  We had shared hunger, danger, fatigue, and victory.  His eyes saw my danger quickly, and twice my arm had preserved his life.  It was his destiny.  He was my friend.  And he was great amongst us—­one of those who were near my brother, the Ruler.  He spoke in council, his courage was great, he was the chief of many villages round the great lake that is in the middle of our country as the heart is in the middle of a man’s body.  When his sword was carried into a campong in advance of his coming, the maidens whispered wonderingly under the fruit-trees, the rich men consulted together in the shade, and a feast was made ready with rejoicing and songs.  He had the favour of the Ruler and the affection of the poor.  He loved war, deer hunts, and the charms of women.  He was the possessor of jewels, of lucky weapons, and of men’s devotion.  He was a fierce man; and I had no other friend.