Nigel; you are yet too young to understand the feelings of the old--the
sad memories of happy years that can never return: of voices that are
hushed for ever. No one can _know_ till he has _felt_!"

"But you are not old," said Nigel, wishing to turn the hermit's mind
from a subject on which it seemed to dwell too constantly.

"Not in years," he returned; "but old, _very_ old in experience,
and--stay, what was it that you were asking about? Ah, the big game.
Well, we have plenty of that in some of the larger of the islands; we
have the elephant, the rhinoceros, the tiger, the puma, that great
man-monkey the orang-utan, or, as it is called here, the mias, besides
wild pigs, deer, and innumerable smaller animals and birds--"

The hermit stopped abruptly and sat motionless, with his head bent on
one side, like one who listens intently. Such an action is always
infectious. Nigel and the negro also listened, but heard nothing.

By that time the fire had died down, and, not being required for warmth,
had not been replenished. The faint light of the coming moon, which,
however, was not yet above the horizon, only seemed to render darkness
visible, so that the figure of Moses was quite lost in the shadow of the
bush behind him, though the whites of his solemn eyes appeared like two
glow-worms.

"Do you hear anything?" asked Nigel in a low tone.

"Oars," answered the hermit.

"I hear 'im, massa," whispered the negro, "but das not