There are in our lives short periods which hold no place in memory
but only as the recollection of a feeling. There is no remembrance of
gesture, of action, of any outward manifestation of life; those are lost
in the unearthly brilliance or in the unearthly gloom of such moments.
We are absorbed in the contemplation of that something, within our
bodies, which rejoices or suffers while the body goes on breathing,
instinctively runs away or, not less instinctively, fights--perhaps
dies. But death in such a moment is the privilege of the fortunate, it
is a high and rare favour, a supreme grace.

Willems never remembered how and when he parted from Aissa. He caught
himself drinking the muddy water out of the hollow of his hand, while
his canoe was drifting in mid-stream past the last houses of Sambir.
With his returning wits came the fear of something unknown that had
taken possession of his heart, of something inarticulate and masterful
which could not speak and would be obeyed. His first impulse was that of
revolt. He would never go back there. Never! He looked round slowly at
the brilliance of things in the deadly sunshine and took up his paddle!
How changed everything seemed! The river was broader, the sky was
higher. How fast the canoe flew under the strokes of his paddle! Since
when had he acquired the strength of two men or more? He looked up and
down the reach at the forests of the bank with a confused notion that
with one sweep of his hand he could tumble all these trees into the
stream. His face felt burning. He drank again, and shuddered with a
depraved sense of pleasure at the after-taste of slime in the water.

It was late when he reached Almayer's house, but he crossed the dark and
uneven courtyard, walking lightly in the radiance of some light of his