It was impalpable and vast. The earth had indeed rolled away from under
his land, and he, with his handful of people, stood surrounded by a
silent tumult as of contending shades. Certainly no sound came from
outside. "Friends and enemies!" He might have added, "and memories," at
least as far as he himself was concerned; but he neglected to make that
point then. It made itself later on, though; but it was after the
daily performance--in the wings, so to speak, and with the lights out.
Meantime he filled the stage with barbarous dignity. Some ten years ago
he had led his people--a scratch lot of wandering Bugis--to the conquest
of the bay, and now in his august care they had forgotten all the past,
and had lost all concern for the future. He gave them wisdom, advice,
reward, punishment, life or death, with the same serenity of attitude
and voice. He understood irrigation and the art of war--the qualities of
weapons and the craft of boat-building. He could conceal his heart; had
more endurance; he could swim longer, and steer a canoe better than any
of his people; he could shoot straighter, and negotiate more tortuously
than any man of his race I knew. He was an adventurer of the sea, an
outcast, a ruler--and my very good friend. I wish him a quick death in a
stand-up fight, a death in sunshine; for he had known remorse and power,
and no man can demand more from life. Day after day he appeared before
us, incomparably faithful to the illusions of the stage, and at sunset
the night descended upon him quickly, like a falling curtain. The seamed
hills became black shadows towering high upon a clear sky; above them
the glittering confusion of stars resembled a mad turmoil stilled by a
gesture; sounds ceased, men slept, forms vanished--and the reality
of the universe alone remained--a marvellous thing of darkness and
glimmers.


II