“I bore it as long as I could—­then leaped away, as on this very night I leaped from my stockade and swam to you.  I ran—­I ran crying like a child left alone and far from the houses.  He ran by my side, without footsteps, whispering, whispering—­invisible and heard.  I sought people—­I wanted men around me!  Men who had not died!  And again we two wandered.  I sought danger, violence, and death.  I fought in the Atjeh war, and a brave people wondered at the valiance of a stranger.  But we were two; he warded off the blows . . .  Why?  I wanted peace, not life.  And no one could see him; no one knew—­I dared tell no one.  At times he would leave me, but not for long; then he would return and whisper or stare.  My heart was torn with a strange fear, but could not die.  Then I met an old man.

“You all knew him.  People here called him my sorcerer, my servant and sword-bearer; but to me he was father, mother, protection, refuge and peace.  When I met him he was returning from a pilgrimage, and I heard him intoning the prayer of sunset.  He had gone to the holy place with his son, his son’s wife, and a little child; and on their return, by the favour of the Most High, they all died:  the strong man, the young mother, the little child—­they died; and the old man reached his country alone.  He was a pilgrim serene and pious, very wise and very lonely.  I told him all.  For a time we lived together.  He said over me words of compassion, of wisdom, of prayer.  He warded from me the shade of the dead.  I begged him for a charm that would make me safe.  For a long time he refused; but at last, with a sigh and a smile, he gave me one.  Doubtless he could command a spirit stronger than the unrest of my dead friend, and again I had peace; but I had become restless, and a lover of turmoil and danger.  The old man never left me.  We travelled together.  We were welcomed by the great; his wisdom and my courage are remembered where your strength, O white men, is forgotten!  We served the Sultan of Sula.  We fought the Spaniards.  There were victories, hopes, defeats, sorrow, blood, women’s tears . . .  What for? . . .  We fled.  We collected wanderers of a warlike race and came here to fight again.  The rest you know.  I am the ruler of a conquered land, a lover of war and danger, a fighter and a plotter.  But the old man has died, and I am again the slave of the dead.  He is not here now to drive away the reproachful shade—­to silence the lifeless voice!  The power of his charm has died with him.  And I know fear; and I hear the whisper, ‘Kill! kill! kill!’ . . .  Have I not killed enough? . . .”

For the first time that night a sudden convulsion of madness and rage passed over his face.  His wavering glances darted here and there like scared birds in a thunderstorm.  He jumped up, shouting—­

“By the spirits that drink blood:  by the spirits that cry in the night:  by all the spirits of fury, misfortune, and death, I swear—­some day I will strike into every heart I meet—­I . . .”