still with his arms outstretched; indeed, I noticed that one of his
fingers seemed to be in the left-hand fire and reflected that it would
be burnt off. In this, however, I must have been mistaken, since I
observed subsequently that it was not even scorched.

Thus Zikali lay for a long while till I began to wonder whether he were
not really dead. Dead enough he seemed to be, for no corpse could have
stayed more stirless. But that night I could not keep my thoughts fixed
on Zikali or anything. I merely noted these circumstances in a
mechanical way, as might one with whom they had nothing whatsoever to
do. They did not interest me at all, for there appeared to be nothing
in me to be interested, as I gathered according to Zikali, because I was
not there, but in a warmer place than I hope ever to occupy, namely, in
the stone in that unpleasant-looking, little right-hand fire.

So matters went as they might in a dream. The sun had sunk completely,
not even an after-glow was left. The only light remaining was that from
the smouldering fires, which just sufficed to illumine the bulk of
Zikali, lying on his side, his squat shape looking like that of a dead
hippopotamus calf. What was left of my consciousness grew heartily sick
of the whole affair; I was tired of being so empty.

At length the dwarf stirred. He sat up, yawned, sneezed, shook himself,
and began to rake among the burning embers of my fire with his naked
hand. Presently he found the white stone, which was now red-hot--at any
rate it glowed as though it were--and after examining it for a moment
finally popped it into his mouth! Then he hunted in the other fire for
the black stone, which he treated in a similar fashion. The next thing
I remember was that the fires, which had died away almost to nothing,
were burning very brightly again, I suppose because someone had put fuel