was getting very full of sooty smoke from the torch, in which the unswaying flame burned blood-red without a flicker.  He walked in resolutely, striding over the dead body, and covered with his revolver another naked figure outlined vaguely at the other end.  As he was about to pull the trigger, the man threw away with force a short heavy spear, and squatted submissively on his hams, his back to the wall and his clasped hands between his legs.  “You want your life?” Jim said.  The other made no sound.  “How many more of you?” asked Jim again.  “Two more, Tuan,” said the man very softly, looking with big fascinated eyes into the muzzle of the revolver.  Accordingly two more crawled from under the mats, holding out ostentatiously their empty hands.’

CHAPTER 32

’Jim took up an advantageous position and shepherded them out in a bunch through the doorway:  all that time the torch had remained vertical in the grip of a little hand, without so much as a tremble.  The three men obeyed him, perfectly mute, moving automatically.  He ranged them in a row.  “Link arms!” he ordered.  They did so.  “The first who withdraws his arm or turns his head is a dead man,” he said.  “March!” They stepped out together, rigidly; he followed, and at the side the girl, in a trailing white gown, her black hair falling as low as her waist, bore the light.  Erect and swaying, she seemed to glide without touching the earth; the only sound was the silky swish and rustle of the long grass.  “Stop!” cried Jim.

’The river-bank was steep; a great freshness ascended, the light fell on the edge of smooth dark water frothing without a ripple; right and left the shapes of the houses ran together below the sharp outlines of the roofs.  “Take my greetings to Sherif Ali—­till I come myself,” said Jim.  Not one head of the three budged.  “Jump!” he thundered.  The three splashes made one splash, a shower flew up, black heads bobbed convulsively, and disappeared; but a great blowing and spluttering went on, growing faint, for they were diving industriously in great fear of a parting shot.  Jim turned to the girl, who had been a silent and attentive observer.  His heart seemed suddenly to grow too big for his breast and choke him in the hollow of his throat.  This probably made him speechless for so long, and after returning his gaze she flung the burning torch with a wide sweep of the arm into the river.  The ruddy fiery glare, taking a long flight through the night, sank with a vicious hiss, and the calm soft starlight descended upon them, unchecked.

’He did not tell me what it was he said when at last he recovered his voice.  I don’t suppose he could be very eloquent.  The world was still, the night breathed on them, one of those nights that seem created for the sheltering of tenderness, and there are moments when our souls, as if freed from their dark envelope, glow with an exquisite sensibility that makes certain silences more lucid than speeches.  As to the girl, he told me, “She broke down a bit.  Excitement—­don’t you know.  Reaction.  Deucedly tired she must have been—­and all that kind of thing.  And—­and—­hang it all—­she was fond of me, don’t you see. . . .  I too . . . didn’t know, of course . . . never entered my head . . .”