Night came, and Kayerts sat unmoving on his chair.  He sat quiet as if he had taken a dose of opium.  The violence of the emotions he had passed through produced a feeling of exhausted serenity.  He had plumbed in one short afternoon the depths of horror and despair, and now found repose in the conviction that life had no more secrets for him:  neither had death!  He sat by the corpse thinking; thinking very actively, thinking very new thoughts.  He seemed to have broken loose from himself altogether.  His old thoughts, convictions, likes and dislikes, things he respected and things he abhorred, appeared in their true light at last!  Appeared contemptible and childish, false and ridiculous.  He revelled in his new wisdom while he sat by the man he had killed.  He argued with himself about all things under heaven with that kind of wrong-headed lucidity which may be observed in some lunatics.  Incidentally he reflected that the fellow dead there had been a noxious beast anyway; that men died every day in thousands; perhaps in hundreds of thousands—­who could tell?—­and that in the number, that one death could not possibly make any difference; couldn’t have any importance, at least to a thinking creature.  He, Kayerts, was a thinking creature.  He had been all his life, till that moment, a believer in a lot of nonsense like the rest of mankind—­who are fools; but now he thought!  He knew!  He was at peace; he was familiar with the highest wisdom!  Then he tried to imagine himself dead, and Carlier sitting in his chair watching him; and his attempt met with such unexpected success, that in a very few moments he became not at all sure who was dead and who was alive.  This extraordinary achievement of his fancy startled him, however, and by a clever and timely effort of mind he saved himself just in time from becoming Carlier.  His heart thumped, and he felt hot all over at the thought of that danger.  Carlier!  What a beastly thing!  To compose his now disturbed nerves—­and no wonder!—­he tried to whistle a little.  Then, suddenly, he fell asleep, or thought he had slept; but at any rate there was a fog, and somebody had whistled in the fog.

He stood up.  The day had come, and a heavy mist had descended upon the land:  the mist penetrating, enveloping, and silent; the morning mist of tropical lands; the mist that clings and kills; the mist white and deadly, immaculate and poisonous.  He stood up, saw the body, and threw his arms above his head with a cry like that of a man who, waking from a trance, finds himself immured forever in a tomb.  “Help! . . . .  My God!”

A shriek inhuman, vibrating and sudden, pierced like a sharp dart the white shroud of that land of sorrow.  Three short, impatient screeches followed, and then, for a time, the fog-wreaths rolled on, undisturbed, through a formidable silence.  Then many more shrieks, rapid and piercing, like the yells of some exasperated and ruthless creature, rent the air.  Progress was calling to Kayerts from the river.  Progress and civilization and all the virtues.  Society was calling to its accomplished child to come, to be taken care of, to be instructed, to be judged, to be condemned; it called him to return to that rubbish heap from which he had wandered away, so that justice could be done.