“We were on our way to Atjeh, where there was war; but the vessel ran on a sandbank, and we had to land in Delli.  We had earned a little money, and had bought a gun from some Selangore traders; only one gun, which was fired by the spark of a stone; Matara carried it.  We landed.  Many white men lived there, planting tobacco on conquered plains, and Matara . . .  But no matter.  He saw him! . . .  The Dutchman! . . .  At last! . . .  We crept and watched.  Two nights and a day we watched.  He had a house—­a big house in a clearing in the midst of his fields; flowers and bushes grew around; there were narrow paths of yellow earth between the cut grass, and thick hedges to keep people out.  The third night we came armed, and lay behind a hedge.

“A heavy dew seemed to soak through our flesh and made our very entrails cold.  The grass, the twigs, the leaves, covered with drops of water, were gray in the moonlight.  Matara, curled up in the grass, shivered in his sleep.  My teeth rattled in my head so loud that I was afraid the noise would wake up all the land.  Afar, the watchmen of white men’s houses struck wooden clappers and hooted in the darkness.  And, as every night, I saw her by my side.  She smiled no more! . . .  The fire of anguish burned in my breast, and she whispered to me with compassion, with pity, softly—­as women will; she soothed the pain of my mind; she bent her face over me—­the face of a woman who ravishes the hearts and silences the reason of men.  She was all mine, and no one could see her—­no one of living mankind!  Stars shone through her bosom, through her floating hair.  I was overcome with regret, with tenderness, with sorrow.  Matara slept . . .  Had I slept?  Matara was shaking me by the shoulder, and the fire of the sun was drying the grass, the bushes, the leaves.  It was day.  Shreds of white mist hung between the branches of trees.

“Was it night or day?  I saw nothing again till I heard Matara breathe quickly where he lay, and then outside the house I saw her.  I saw them both.  They had come out.  She sat on a bench under the wall, and twigs laden with flowers crept high above her head, hung over her hair.  She had a box on her lap, and gazed into it, counting the increase of her pearls.  The Dutchman stood by looking on; he smiled down at her; his white teeth flashed; the hair on his lip was like two twisted flames.  He was big and fat, and joyous, and without fear.  Matara tipped fresh priming from the hollow of his palm, scraped the flint with his thumb-nail, and gave the gun to me.  To me!  I took it . . .  O fate!

“He whispered into my ear, lying on his stomach, ’I shall creep close and then amok . . . let her die by my hand.  You take aim at the fat swine there.  Let him see me strike my shame off the face of the earth—­and then . . . you are my friend—­kill with a sure shot.’  I said nothing; there was no air in my chest—­there was no air in the world.  Matara had gone suddenly from my side.  The grass nodded.  Then a bush rustled.  She lifted her head.