"Nothing!" said the man with a sigh, and as if awakening from a long
period of musing.

He was clad in a jacket of coarse blue cotton, of the kind a poor
fisherman might own, and he wore it wide open on a muscular chest the
colour and smoothness of bronze. From the twist of threadbare sarong
wound tightly on the hips protruded outward to the left the ivory hilt,
ringed with six bands of gold, of a weapon that would not have disgraced
a ruler. Silver glittered about the flintlock and the hardwood stock
of his gun. The red and gold handkerchief folded round his head was of
costly stuff, such as is woven by high-born women in the households of
chiefs, only the gold threads were tarnished and the silk frayed in the
folds. His head was thrown back, the dropped eyelids narrowed the gleam
of his eyes. His face was hairless, the nose short with mobile nostrils,
and the smile of careless good-humour seemed to have been permanently
wrought, as if with a delicate tool, into the slight hollows about
the corners of rather full lips. His upright figure had a negligent
elegance. But in the careless face, in the easy gestures of the whole
man there was something attentive and restrained.

After giving the offing a last searching glance, he turned and, facing
the rising sun, walked bare-footed on the elastic sand. The trailed butt
of his gun made a deep furrow. The embers had ceased to smoulder. He
looked down at them pensively for a while, then called over his shoulder
to the girl who had remained behind, still scanning the sea:

"The fire is out, Immada."

At the sound of his voice the girl moved toward the mats. Her black hair