THE SOUL WITHIN THE STONE 311 



the best of their fragrance ; ferns and lotus did obeisance 

 to high noon. The birds had ceased to whistle, and 

 the droning of bees gave to the upper air slumbering 

 rhythm of its own. 



Again the intruder slept. Again the sun commanded 

 and he woke raging. Standing, he cursed both loud and 

 long, eyes protuberant, face purpling under the strain 

 of vindictive oaths. 



What an unflattering contrast to the unclad natives 

 who had dominated yet blended with the scene the 

 girl the prototype of a swaying palm, the boy that of a 

 tough young bloodwood beside the creek, among the 

 topmost branches of which a crimson-flowered mistletoe 

 made a splash of colour in harmony with the single red 

 feather from the wing of a black cockatoo which the soft- 

 tongued youth had entangled in his hair. 



This gross, profane, sun-smitten, sea-rejected herald 

 of civilisation, disowned by his fellows, disinherited of 

 the world, defiled the spot, and his voice created an 

 inaugural discord. 



With arms uplifted, he muttered ineffectual curses 

 against his fellows, upbraided his saints, and defied his 

 deity. But while his lips frothed with the passion of a 

 stuttering tongue, the provoked but just genius of the 

 spot passed sentence, and swiftly and silently the mes- 

 sengers of Death came. Four slender spears penetrated 

 his shaggy chest, as with a scream which ended in a 

 gulp he splashed back into the water. His struggles 

 and splutterings soon ceased. Silence resumed its 

 fascination. 



Blood welled from the mouth and nose and spear 

 wounds, which the eager water carried off in wavy, 

 independent streams, while the dead face whitened. 



Many minutes elapsed before a dozen wild-eyed natives 

 cautiously oozed through the jungle, stimulating each 



