That would be the time: with a shout and a leap he would be in
the midst of them, kriss in hand, killing, killing, killing, and would
die with the shouts of his enemies in his ears, their warm blood spurting
before his eyes.
Carried away by his excitement, he snatched the kriss hidden in his
sarong, and, drawing a long breath, rushed forward, struck at the empty
air, and fell on his face. He lay as if stunned in the sudden reaction
from his exaltation, thinking that, even if he died thus gloriously, it
would have to be before he saw Nina. Better so. If he saw her again he
felt that death would be too terrible. With horror he, the descendant of
Rajahs and of conquerors, had to face the doubt of his own bravery. His
desire of life tormented him in a paroxysm of agonising remorse. He had
not the courage to stir a limb. He had lost faith in himself, and there
was nothing else in him of what makes a man. The suffering remained, for
it is ordered that it should abide in the human body even to the last
breath, and fear remained. Dimly he could look into the depths of his
passionate love, see its strength and its weakness, and felt afraid.
The sun went down slowly. The shadow of the western forest marched over
the clearing, covered the man's scorched shoulders with its cool mantle,
and went on hurriedly to mingle with the shadows of other forests on the
eastern side.
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