“Well, Massa Nadgel,” said Moses, “it’s my opinion dat he wants to go back ’cause he’s got an uncommon affekshnit heart.”

“How?  Surely you don’t mean that his love of the mere place is so strong that—­”

“No, no, Massa Nadgel—­’s not dat.  But he was awrful fond ob his wife an’ darter, an’ I know he’s got a photogruff ob ’em bof togidder, an’ I t’ink he’d sooner lose his head dan lose dat, for I’ve seed him look at ‘em for hours, an’ kiss ’em sometimes w’en he t’ought I was asleep.”

The return of the hermit here abruptly stopped the conversation.  The canoe was carried down and put into the water, watched with profound interest by hundreds of natives and traders, who were all more or less acquainted with the hermit of Rakata.

It was still daylight when they paddled out into Lampong Bay, but the volumes of dust which rose from Krakatoa—­although nearly fifty miles off—­did much to produce an unusually early twilight.

“Goin’ to be bery dark, massa,” remarked Moses as they glided past the shipping.  “Shall I light de lamp?”

“Do, Moses, but we shan’t need it, for as we get nearer home the volcanic fires will light us on our way.”

“De volcanic dust is a-goin’ to powder us on our way too, massa.  Keep your hands out o’ the way, Spinkie,” said the negro as he fixed a small oil-lamp to the mast, and resumed his paddle.

“After we get out a bit the wind will help us,” said the hermit.

“Yes, massa, if he don’t blow too strong,” returned Moses, as a squall came rushing down the mountains and swept over the bay, ruffling its now dark waters into foaming wavelets.

Altogether, what with the increasing darkness and the hissing squall, and the night-voyage before them, and the fires of Krakatoa which were now clearly visible on the horizon, Nigel Boy felt a more eerie sensation in his breast than he ever remembered to have experienced in all his previous life, but he scorned to admit the fact—­even to himself, and said, mentally, that it was rather romantic than otherwise!

Just then there burst upon their ears the yell of a steam-whistle, and a few moments later a steamer bore straight down on them, astern.

“Steamer ahoy!” shouted Van der Kemp.  “Will ye throw us a rope?”

“Ay! ay!—­ease ’er!—­stop ’er! where are ’ee bound for?” demanded an unmistakably English voice.

“Krakatoa!” replied the hermit.  “Where are you?”

“Anjer, on the Java coast.  Do ’ee want to be smothered, roasted, and blown up?” asked the captain, looking down on the canoe as it ranged alongside the dark hull.

“No, we want to get home.”

“Home!  Well, you’re queer fellows in a queer eggshell for such waters.  Every man to his taste.  Look out for the rope!”

“All right, cappen,” cried Moses as he caught the coil.