The second day drew to its close.  Our simple preparations were complete.  They consisted mainly in making ready our hurricane lamps and packing up a little food, enough to keep us for three or four days if necessary, together with some matches and a good supply of oil, since, as Bastin put it, he was determined not to be caught like the foolish virgins in the parable.

“You see,” he added, “one never knows when it might please that old wretch to turn off the incandescent gas or electric light, or whatever it is he uses to illumine his family catacombs, and then it would be awkward if we had no oil.”

“For the matter of that he might steal our lamps,” suggested Bickley, “in which case we should be where Moses was when the light went out.”

“I have considered that possibility,” answered Bastin, “and therefore, although it is a dangerous weapon to carry loaded, I am determined to take my revolver.  If necessary I shall consider myself quite justified in shooting him to save our lives and those of thousands of others.”

At this we both laughed; somehow the idea of Bastin trying to shoot Oro struck us as intensely ludicrous.  Yet that very thing was to happen.

It was a peculiarly beautiful sunset over the southern seas.  To the west the great flaming orb sank into the ocean, to the east appeared the silver circle of the full moon.  To my excited fancy they were like scales hanging from the hand of a materialised spirit of calm.  Over the volcano and the lake, over the island with its palm trees, over the seas beyond, this calm brooded.  Save for a few travelling birds the sky was empty; no cloud disturbed its peace; the world seemed steeped in innocence and quiet.

All these things struck me, as I think they did the others, because by the action of some simultaneous thought it came to our minds that very probably we were looking on them for the last time.  It is all very well to talk of the Unknown and the Infinite whereof we are assured we are the heirs, but that does not make it any easier for us to part with the Known and the Finite.  The contemplation of the wonders of Eternity does not conceal the advantages of actual and existent Time.  In short there is no one of us, from a sainted archbishop down to a sinful suicide, who does not regret the necessity of farewell to the pleasant light and the kindly race of men wherewith we are acquainted.

For after all, who can be quite certain of the Beyond?  It may be splendid, but it will probably be strange, and from strangeness, after a certain age, we shrink.  We know that all things will be different there; that our human relationships will be utterly changed, that perhaps sex which shapes so many of them, will vanish to be replaced by something unknown, that ambitions will lose their hold of us, and that, at the best, the mere loss of hopes and fears will leave us empty.  So at least we think, who seek not variation but continuance, since the spirit must differ from the body and that thought alarms our intelligence.