seemed to get pushed up on his forehead.  He welcomed me in his quiet and humorous voice.  Only one corner of the vast room, the corner in which stood his writing-desk, was strongly lighted by a shaded reading-lamp, and the rest of the spacious apartment melted into shapeless gloom like a cavern.  Narrow shelves filled with dark boxes of uniform shape and colour ran round the walls, not from floor to ceiling, but in a sombre belt about four feet broad.  Catacombs of beetles.  Wooden tablets were hung above at irregular intervals.  The light reached one of them, and the word Coleoptera written in gold letters glittered mysteriously upon a vast dimness.  The glass cases containing the collection of butterflies were ranged in three long rows upon slender-legged little tables.  One of these cases had been removed from its place and stood on the desk, which was bestrewn with oblong slips of paper blackened with minute handwriting.

’"So you see me—­so,” he said.  His hand hovered over the case where a butterfly in solitary grandeur spread out dark bronze wings, seven inches or more across, with exquisite white veinings and a gorgeous border of yellow spots.  “Only one specimen like this they have in your London, and then—­no more.  To my small native town this my collection I shall bequeath.  Something of me.  The best.”

’He bent forward in the chair and gazed intently, his chin over the front of the case.  I stood at his back.  “Marvellous,” he whispered, and seemed to forget my presence.  His history was curious.  He had been born in Bavaria, and when a youth of twenty-two had taken an active part in the revolutionary movement of 1848.  Heavily compromised, he managed to make his escape, and at first found a refuge with a poor republican watchmaker in Trieste.  From there he made his way to Tripoli with a stock of cheap watches to hawk about,—­not a very great opening truly, but it turned out lucky enough, because it was there he came upon a Dutch traveller—­a rather famous man, I believe, but I don’t remember his name.  It was that naturalist who, engaging him as a sort of assistant, took him to the East.  They travelled in the Archipelago together and separately, collecting insects and birds, for four years or more.  Then the naturalist went home, and Stein, having no home to go to, remained with an old trader he had come across in his journeys in the interior of Celebes—­if Celebes may be said to have an interior.  This old Scotsman, the only white man allowed to reside in the country at the time, was a privileged friend of the chief ruler of Wajo States, who was a woman.  I often heard Stein relate how that chap, who was slightly paralysed on one side, had introduced him to the native court a short time before another stroke carried him off.  He was a heavy man with a patriarchal white beard, and of imposing stature.  He came into the council-hall where all the rajahs, pangerans, and headmen were assembled, with the queen, a fat wrinkled woman (very free in her speech, Stein said), reclining on a high couch under a canopy.  He dragged his leg, thumping with his stick, and grasped Stein’s arm, leading him right up to the couch.  “Look, queen, and you rajahs, this is my son,” he proclaimed in a stentorian voice.  “I have traded with your fathers, and when I die he shall trade with you and your sons.”