that good fight had been to me like a draught of wine, and made me for a while oblivious of my loss and of the pain from my wound. but the glow and feeling of exultation did not last: the lacerated flesh smarted; i was weak from loss of blood, and oppressed with sensations of fatigue. if my foes had appeared on the scene they would have made an easy conquest of me; but they came not, and i continued to walk on, slowly and painfully, pausing often to rest.

at last, recovering somewhat from my faint condition, and losing all fear of being overtaken, my sorrow revived in full force, and thought returned to madden me.

alas! this bright being, like no other in its divine brightness, so long in the making, now no more than a dead leaf, a little dust, lost and forgotten for ever — oh, pitiless! oh, cruel!

but i knew it all before — this law of nature and of necessity, against which all revolt is idle: often had the remembrance of it filled me with ineffable melancholy; only now it seemed cruel beyond all cruelty.

not nature the instrument, not the keen sword that cuts into the bleeding tissues, but the hand that wields it — the unseen unknown something, or person, that manifests itself in the horrible workings of nature.

“did you know, beloved, at the last, in that intolerable heat, in that moment of supreme anguish, that he is unlistening, unhelpful as the stars, that you cried not to him? to me was your cry; but your poor, frail fellow creature was not there to save, or, failing that, to cast himself into the flames and perish with you, hating god.”

thus, in my insufferable pain, i spoke aloud; alone in that solitary place, a bleeding fugitive in the dark night, looking up at the stars i cursed the author of my being and called on him to take back the abhorred gift of life.

yet, according to my philosophy, how vain it was! all my bitterness and hatred and defiance were as empty, as ineffectual, as utterly futile, as are the supplications of the meek worshipper, and no more than the whisper of a leaf, the light whirr of an insect’s wing. whether i loved him who was over all, as when i thanked him on my knees for guiding me to where i had heard so sweet and mysterious a melody, or hated and defied him as now, it all came from him — love and hate, good and evil.

but i know — i knew then — that in one thing my philosophy was false, that it was not the whole truth; that though my cries did not touch nor come near him they would yet hurt me; and, just as a prisoner maddened at his unjust fate beats against the stone walls of his cell until he falls back bruised and bleeding to the floor, so did i wilfully bruise my own soul, and knew that those wounds i gave myself would not heal.

of that night, the beginning of the blackest period of my life, i shall say no more; and over subsequent events i shall pass quickly.

morning found me at a distance of many miles from the scene of my duel with the indian, in a broken, hilly country, varied with savannah and open forest. i was well-nigh spent with my long march, and felt that unless food was obtained before many hours my situation would be indeed desperate. with labour i managed to climb to the summit of a hill about three hundred feet high in order to survey the surrounding country, and found that it was one of a group of five, and conjectured that these were the five hills of uritay and that i was in the neighbourhood of managa’s village. coming down i proceeded to the next hill, which was higher; and before reaching it came to a stream in a narrow valley dividing the hills, and proceeding along its banks in search of a crossing-place, i came full in sight of the settlement sought for. as i approached, people were seen moving hurriedly about; and by the time i arrived, walking slowly and painfully, seven or eight men were standing before the village’ some with spears in their hands, the women and children behind them, all staring curiously at me. drawing near i cried out in a somewhat feeble voice that i was seeking for managa; whereupon a gray-haired man stepped forth, spear in hand, and replied that he was managa, and demanded to know why i sought him. i told him a part of my story — enough to show that i had a deadly feud with runi, that i had escaped from him after killing one of his people.

i was taken in and supplied with food; my wound was examined and dressed; and then i was permitted to lie down and sleep, while managa, with half a dozen of his people, hurriedly started to visit the scene of my fight with kua-ko, not only to verify my story, but partly with the hope of meeting runi. i did not see him again until the next morning, when he informed me that he had found the spot where i had been overtaken, that the dead man had been discovered by the others and carried back towards parahuari. he had followed the trace for some distance, and he was satisfied that runi had come thus far in the first place only with the intention of spying on him.

my arrival, and the strange tidings i had brought, had thrown the village into a great commotion; it was evident that from that time managa lived in constant apprehension of a sudden attack from his old enemy. this gave me great satisfaction; it was my study to keep the feeling alive, and, more than that, to drop continual hints of his enemy’s secret murderous purpose, until he was wrought up to a kind of frenzy of mingled fear and rage. and being of a suspicious and somewhat truculent temper, he one day all at once turned on me as the immediate cause of his miserable state, suspecting perhaps that i only wished to make an instrument of him. but i was strangely bold and careless of danger then, and only mocked at his rage, telling him proudly that i feared him not; that runi, his mortal enemy and mine, feared not him but me; that runi knew perfectly well where i had taken refuge and would not venture to make his meditated attack while i remained in his village, but would wait for my departure. “kill me, managa,” i cried, smiting my chest as i stood facing him. “kill me, and the result will be that he will come upon you unawares and murder you all, as he has resolved to do sooner or later.”

after that speech he glared at me in silence, then flung down the spear he had snatched up in his sudden rage and stalked out of the house and into the wood; but before long he was back again, seated in his old place, brooding on my words with a face black as night.

it is painful to recall that secret dark chapter of my life — that period of moral insanity. but i wish not to be a hypocrite, conscious or unconscious, to delude myself or another with this plea of insanity. my mind was very clear just then; past and present were clear to me; the future clearest of all: i could measure the extent of my action and speculate on its future effect, and my sense of right or wrong — of individual responsibility — was more vivid than at any other period of my life. can i even say that i was blinded by passion? driven, perhaps, but certainly not blinded. for no reaction, or submission, had followed on that furious revolt against the unknown being, personal or not, that is behind nature, in whose existence i believed. i was still in revolt: i would hate him, and show my hatred by being like him, as he appears to us reflected in that mirror of nature. had he given me good gifts — the sense of right and wrong and sweet humanity? the beautiful sacred flower he had caused to grow in me i would crush ruthlessly; its beauty and fragrance and grace would be dead for ever; there was nothing evil, nothing cruel and contrary to my nature, that i would not be guilty of, glorying in my guilt. this was not the temper of a few days: i remained for close upon two months at managa’s village, never repenting nor desisting in my efforts to induce the indians to join me in that most barbarous adventure on which my heart was set.

i succeeded in the end; it would have been strange if i had not. the horrible details need not be given. managa did not wait for his enemy, but fell on him unexpectedly, an hour after nightfall in his own village. if i had really been insane during those two months, if some cloud had been on me, some demoniacal force dragging me on, the cloud and insanity vanished and the constraint was over in one moment, when that hellish enterprise was completed. it was the sight of an old woman, lying where she had been struck down, the fire of the blazing house lighting her wide-open glassy eyes and white hair dabbled in blood, which suddenly, as by a miracle, wrought this change in my brain. for they were all dead at last, old and young, all who had lighted the fire round that great green tree in which rima had taken refuge, who had danced round the blaze, shouting: “burn! burn!”

at the moment my glance fell on that prostrate form i paused and stood still, trembling like a person struck with a sudden pang in the heart, who thinks that his last moment has come to him unawares. after a while i slunk away out of the great circle of firelight into the thick darkness beyond. instinctively i turned towards the forests across the savannah — my forest again; and fled away from the noise and the sight of flames, never pausing until i found myself within the black shadow of the trees. into the deeper blackness of the interior i dared not venture; on the border i paused to ask myself what i did there alone in the night-time. sitting down, i covered my face with my hands as if to hide it more effectually than it could be hidden by night and the forest shadows. what horrible thing, what calamity that frightened my soul to think of, had fallen on me? the revulsion of feeling, the unspeakable horror, the remorse, was more than i could bear. i started up with a cry of anguish, and would have slain myself to escape at that moment; but nature is not always and utterly cruel, and on this occasion she came to my aid. consciousness forsook me, and i lived not again until the light of early morning was in the east; then found myself lying on the wet herbage — wet with rain that had lately fallen. my physical misery was now so great that it prevented me from dwelling on the scenes witnessed on the previous evening. nature was again merciful in this. i only remembered that it was necessary to hide myself, in case the indians should be still in the neighbourhood and pay the wood a visit. slowly and painfully i crept away into the forest, and there sat for several hours, scarcely thinking at all, in a half-stupefied condition. at noon the sun shone out and dried the wood. i felt no hunger, only a vague sense of bodily misery, and with it the fear that if i left my hiding-place i might meet some human creature face to face. this fear prevented me from stirring until the twilight came, when i crept forth and made my way to the border of the forest, to spend the night there. whether sleep visited me during the dark hours or not i cannot say: day and night my condition seemed the same; i experienced only a dull sensation of utter misery which seemed in spirit and flesh alike, an inability to think clearly, or for more than a few moments consecutively, about anything. scenes in which i had been principal actor came and went, as in a dream when the will slumbers: now with devilish ingenuity and persistence i was working on managa’s mind; now standing motionless in the forest listening for that sweet, mysterious melody; now staring aghast at old cla-cla’s wide-open glassy eyes and white hair dabbled in blood; then suddenly, in the cave at riolama, i was fondly watching the slow return of life and colour to rima’s still face.

when morning came again, i felt so weak that a vague fear of sinking down and dying of hunger at last roused me and sent me forth in quest of food. i moved slowly and my eyes were dim to see, but i knew so well where to seek for small morsels — small edible roots and leaf-stalks, berries, and drops of congealed gum — that it would have been strange in that rich forest if i had not been able to discover something to stay my famine. it was little, but it sufficed for the day. once more nature was merciful to me; for that diligent seeking among the concealing leaves left no interval for thought; every chance morsel gave a momentary pleasure, and as i prolonged my search my steps grew firmer, the dimness passed from my eyes. i was more forgetful of self, more eager, and like a wild animal with no thought or feeling beyond its immediate wants. fatigued at the end, i fell asleep as soon as darkness brought my busy rambles to a close, and did not wake until another morning dawned.

my hunger was extreme now. the wailing notes of a pair of small birds, persistently flitting round me, or perched with gaping bills and wings trembling with agitation, served to remind me that it was now breeding-time; also that rima had taught me to find a small bird’s nest. she found them only to delight her eyes with the sight; but they would be food for me; the crystal and yellow fluid in the gem-like, white or blue or red-speckled shells would help to keep me alive. all day i hunted, listening to every note and cry, watching the motions of every winged thing, and found, besides gums and fruits, over a score of nests containing eggs, mostly of small birds, and although the labour was great and the scratches many, i was well satisfied with the result.

a few days later i found a supply of haima gum, and eagerly began picking it from the tree; not that it could be used, but the thought of the brilliant light it gave was so strong in my mind that mechanically i gathered it all. the possession of this gum, when night closed round me again, produced in me an intense longing for artificial light and warmth. the darkness was harder than ever to endure. i envied the fireflies their natural lights, and ran about in the dusk to capture a few and hold them in the hollow of my two hands, for the sake of their cold, fitful flashes. on the following day i wasted two or three hours trying to get fire in the primitive method with dry wood, but failed, and lost much time, and suffered more than ever from hunger in consequence. yet there was fire in everything; even when i struck at hard wood with my knife, sparks were emitted. if i could only arrest those wonderful heat — and light-giving sparks! and all at once, as if i had just lighted upon some new, wonderful truth, it occurred to me that with my steel hunting-knife and a piece of flint fire could be obtained. immediately i set about preparing tinder with dry moss, rotten wood, and wild cotton; and in a short time i had the wished fire, and heaped wood dry and green on it to make it large. i nursed it well, and spent the night beside it; and it also served to roast some huge white grubs which i had found in the rotten wood of a prostrate trunk. the sight of these great grubs had formerly disgusted me; but they tasted good to me now, and stayed my hunger, and that was all i looked for in my wild forest food.

for a long time an undefined feeling prevented me from going near the site of nuflo’s burnt lodge. i went there at last; and the first thing i did was to go all round the fatal spot, cautiously peering into the rank herbage, as if i feared a lurking serpent; and at length, at some distance from the blackened heap, i discovered a human skeleton, and knew it to be nuflo’s. in his day he had been a great armadillo-hunter, and these quaint carrion-eaters had no doubt revenged themselves by devouring his flesh when they found him dead — killed by the savages.

having once returned to this spot of many memories, i could not quit it again; while my wild woodland life lasted, here must i have my lair, and being here i could not leave that mournful skeleton above ground. with labour i excavated a pit to bury it, careful not to cut or injure a broad-leafed creeper that had begun to spread itself over the spot; and after refilling the hole i drew the long, trailing stems over the mound.

“sleep well, old man,” said i, when my work was done; and these few words, implying neither censure nor praise, was all the burial service that old nuflo had from me.

i then visited the spot where the old man, assisted by me, had concealed his provisions before starting for riolama, and was pleased to find that it had not been discovered by the indians. besides the store of tobacco leaf, maize, pumpkin, potatoes, and cassava bread, and the cooking utensils, i found among other things a chopper — a great acquisition, since with it i would be able to cut down small palms and bamboos to make myself a hut.

the possession of a supply of food left me time for many things: time in the first place to make my own conditions; doubtless after them there would be further progression on the old lines — luxuries added to necessaries; a healthful, fruitful life of thought and action combined; and at last a peaceful, contemplative old age.

i cleared away ashes and rubbish, and marked out the very spot where rima’s separate bower had been for my habitation, which i intended to make small. in five days it was finished; then, after lighting a fire, i stretched myself out in my dry bed of moss and leaves with a feeling that was almost triumphant. let the rain now fall in torrents, putting out the firefly’s lamp; let the wind and thunder roar their loudest, and the lightnings smite the earth with intolerable light, frightening the poor monkeys in their wet, leafy habitations, little would i heed it all on my dry bed, under my dry, palm-leaf thatch, with glorious fire to keep me company and protect me from my ancient enemy, darkness.

from that first sleep under shelter i woke refreshed, and was not driven by the cruel spur of hunger into the wet forest. the wished time had come of rest from labour, of leisure for thought. resting here, just where she had rested, night by night clasping a visionary mother in her arms, whispering tenderest words in a visionary ear, i too now clasped her in my arms — a visionary rima. how different the nights had seemed when i was without shelter, before i had rediscovered fire! how had i endured it? that strange ghostly gloom of the woods at night-time full of innumerable strange shapes; still and dark, yet with something seen at times moving amidst them, dark and vague and strange also — an owl, perhaps, or bat, or great winged moth, or nightjar. nor had i any choice then but to listen to the night-sounds of the forest; and they were various as the day-sounds, and for every day-sound, from the faintest lisping and softest trill to the deep boomings and piercing cries, there was an analogue; always with something mysterious, unreal in its tone, something proper to the night. they were ghostly sounds, uttered by the ghosts of dead animals; they were a hundred different things by turns, but always with a meaning in them, which i vainly strove to catch — something to be interpreted only by a sleeping faculty in us, lightly sleeping, and now, now on the very point of awaking!

now the gloom and the mystery were shut out; now i had that which stood in the place of pleasure to me, and was more than pleasure. it was a mournful rapture to lie awake now, wishing not for sleep and oblivion, hating the thought of daylight that would come at last to drown and scare away my vision. to be with rima again — my lost rima recovered — mine, mine at last! no longer the old vexing doubt now — “you are you, and i am i— why is it?” — the question asked when our souls were near together, like two raindrops side by side, drawing irresistibly nearer, ever nearer: for now they had touched and were not two, but one inseparable drop, crystallized beyond change, not to be disintegrated by time, nor shattered by death’s blow, nor resolved by any alchemy.

i had other company besides this unfailing vision and the bright dancing fire that talked to me in its fantastic fire language. it was my custom to secure the door well on retiring; grief had perhaps chilled my blood, for i suffered less from heat than from cold at this period, and the fire seemed grateful all night long; i was also anxious to exclude all small winged and creeping night-wanderers. but to exclude them entirely proved impossible: through a dozen invisible chinks they would find their way to me; also some entered by day to lie concealed until after nightfall. a monstrous hairy hermit spider found an asylum in a dusky corner of the hut, under the thatch, and day after day he was there, all day long, sitting close and motionless; but at dark he invariably disappeared — who knows on what murderous errand! his hue was a deep dead-leaf yellow, with a black and grey pattern, borrowed from some wild cat; and so large was he that his great outspread hairy legs, radiating from the flat disk of his body, would have covered a man’s open hand. it was easy to see him in my small interior; often in the night-time my eyes would stray to his corner, never to encounter that strange hairy figure; but daylight failed not to bring him. he troubled me; but now, for rima’s sake, 1 could slay no living thing except from motives of hunger. i had it in my mind to injure him — to strike off one of his legs, which would not be missed much, as they were many — so as to make him go away and return no more to so inhospitable a place. but courage failed me. he might come stealthily back at night to plunge his long, crooked farces into my throat, poisoning my blood with fever and delirium and black death. so i left him alone, and glanced furtively and fearfully at him, hoping that he had not divined any thoughts; thus we lived on unsocially together. more companionable, but still in an uncomfortable way, were the large crawling, running insects — crickets, beetles, and others. they were shapely and black and polished, and ran about here and there on the floor, just like intelligent little horseless carriages; then they would pause with their immovable eyes fixed on me, seeing or in some mysterious way divining my presence; their pliant horns waving up and down, like delicate instruments used to test the air. centipedes and millipedes in dozens came too, and were not welcome. i feared not their venom, but it was a weariness to see them; for they seemed no living things, but the vertebrae of snakes and eels and long slim fishes, dead and desiccated, made to move mechanically over walls and floor by means of some jugglery of nature. i grew skilful at picking them up with a pair of pliant green twigs, to thrust them into the outer darkness.

one night a moth fluttered in and alighted on my hand as i sat by the fire, causing me to hold my breath as i gazed on it. its fore-wings were pale grey, with shadings dark and light written all over in finest characters with some twilight mystery or legend; but the round under-wings were clear amber-yellow, veined like a leaf with red and purple veins; a thing of such exquisite chaste beauty that the sight of it gave me a sudden shock of pleasure. very soon it flew up, circling about, and finally lighted on the palm-leaf thatch directly over the fire. the heat, i thought, would soon drive it from the spot; and, rising, i opened the door, so that it might find its way out again into its own cool, dark, flowery world. and standing by the open door i turned and addressed it: “o night-wanderer of the pale, beautiful wings, go forth, and should you by chance meet her somewhere in the shadowy depths, revisiting her old haunts, be my messenger — ” thus much had i spoken when the frail thing loosened its hold to fall without a flutter, straight and swift, into the white blaze beneath. i sprang forward with a shriek and stood staring into the fire, my whole frame trembling with a sudden terrible emotion. even thus had rima fallen — fallen from the great height — — into the flames that instantly consumed her beautiful flesh and bright spirit! o cruel nature!

a moth that perished in the flame; an indistinct faint sound; a dream in the night; the semblance of a shadowy form moving mist-like in the twilight gloom of the forest, would suddenly bring back a vivid memory, the old anguish, to break for a while the calm of that period. it was calm then after the storm. nevertheless, my health deteriorated. i ate little and slept little and grew thin and weak. when i looked down on the dark, glassy forest pool, where rima would look no more to see herself so much better than in the small mirror of her lover’s pupil, it showed me a gaunt, ragged man with a tangled mass of black hair falling over his shoulders, the bones of his face showing through the dead-looking, sun-parched skin, the sunken eyes with a gleam in them that was like insanity.

to see this reflection had a strangely disturbing effect on me. a torturing voice would whisper in my ear: “yes, you are evidently going mad. by and by you will rush howling through the forest, only to drop down at last and die; and no person will ever find and bury your bones. old nuflo was more fortunate in that he perished first.”

“a lying voice!” i retorted in sudden anger. “my faculties were never keener than now. not a fruit can ripen but i find it. if a small bird darts by with a feather or straw in its bill i mark its flight, and it will be a lucky bird if i do not find its nest in the end. could a savage born in the forest do more? he would starve where i find food!”

“ay, yes, there is nothing wonderful in that,” answered the voice. “the stranger from a cold country suffers less from the heat, when days are hottest, than the indian who knows no other climate. but mark the result! the stranger dies, while the indian, sweating and gasping for breath, survives. in like manner the low-minded savage, cut off from all human fellowship, keeps his faculties to the end, while your finer brain proves your ruin.”

i cut from a tree a score of long, blunt thorns, tough and black as whalebone, and drove them through a strip of wood in which i had burnt a row of holes to receive them, and made myself a comb, and combed out my long, tangled hair to improve my appearance.

“it is not the tangled condition of your hair,” persisted the voice, “but your eyes, so wild and strange in their expression, that show the approach of madness. make your locks as smooth as you like, and add a garland of those scarlet, star-shaped blossoms hanging from the bush behind you — crown yourself as you crowned old cla-cla — but the crazed look will remain just the same.”

and being no longer able to reply, rage and desperation drove me to an act which only seemed to prove that the hateful voice had prophesied truly. taking up a stone, i hurled it down on the water to shatter the image i saw there, as if it had been no faithful reflection of myself, but a travesty, cunningly made of enamelled clay or some other material, and put there by some malicious enemy to mock me.