’He explained to me that he was bitterly disappointed at this.  His fortitude had been tried by so many warnings, he had been for weeks surrounded by so many hints of danger, that he wanted the relief of some reality, of something tangible that he could meet.  “It would have cleared the air for a couple of hours at least, if you know what I mean,” he said to me.  “Jove!  I had been living for days with a stone on my chest.”  Now at last he had thought he would get hold of something, and—­nothing!  Not a trace, not a sign of anybody.  He had raised his weapon as the door flew open, but now his arm fell.  “Fire!  Defend yourself,” the girl outside cried in an agonising voice.  She, being in the dark and with her arm thrust in to the shoulder through the small hole, couldn’t see what was going on, and she dared not withdraw the torch now to run round.  “There’s nobody here!” yelled Jim contemptuously, but his impulse to burst into a resentful exasperated laugh died without a sound:  he had perceived in the very act of turning away that he was exchanging glances with a pair of eyes in the heap of mats.  He saw a shifting gleam of whites.  “Come out!” he cried in a fury, a little doubtful, and a dark-faced head, a head without a body, shaped itself in the rubbish, a strangely detached head, that looked at him with a steady scowl.  Next moment the whole mound stirred, and with a low grunt a man emerged swiftly, and bounded towards Jim.  Behind him the mats as it were jumped and flew, his right arm was raised with a crooked elbow, and the dull blade of a kriss protruded from his fist held off, a little above his head.  A cloth wound tight round his loins seemed dazzlingly white on his bronze skin; his naked body glistened as if wet.

’Jim noted all this.  He told me he was experiencing a feeling of unutterable relief, of vengeful elation.  He held his shot, he says, deliberately.  He held it for the tenth part of a second, for three strides of the man—­an unconscionable time.  He held it for the pleasure of saying to himself, That’s a dead man!  He was absolutely positive and certain.  He let him come on because it did not matter.  A dead man, anyhow.  He noticed the dilated nostrils, the wide eyes, the intent, eager stillness of the face, and then he fired.

’The explosion in that confined space was stunning.  He stepped back a pace.  He saw the man jerk his head up, fling his arms forward, and drop the kriss.  He ascertained afterwards that he had shot him through the mouth, a little upwards, the bullet coming out high at the back of the skull.  With the impetus of his rush the man drove straight on, his face suddenly gaping disfigured, with his hands open before him gropingly, as though blinded, and landed with terrific violence on his forehead, just short of Jim’s bare toes.  Jim says he didn’t lose the smallest detail of all this.  He found himself calm, appeased, without rancour, without uneasiness, as if the death of that man had atoned for everything.  The place