Without thinking he moved to pick it up, stooping with the sad and humble movement of a beggar gathering the alms flung into the dust of the roadside.

Was this the answer to his pleading, to the hot and living words that came from his heart?
Was this the answer thrown at him like an insult, that thing made of wood and iron, insignificant and venomous, fragile and deadly?
He held it by the blade and looked at the handle stupidly for a moment before he let it fall again at his feet; and when he turned round he faced only the night:--the night immense, profound and quiet; a sea of darkness in which she had disappeared without leaving a trace.
He moved forward with uncertain steps, putting out both his hands before him with the anguish of a man blinded suddenly.
"Aissa!" he cried--"come to me at once." He peered and listened, but saw nothing, heard nothing.

After a while the solid blackness seemed to wave before his eyes like a curtain disclosing movements but hiding forms, and he heard light and hurried footsteps, then the short clatter of the gate leading to Lakamba's private enclosure.

He sprang forward and brought up against the rough timber in time to hear the words, "Quick! Quick!" and the sound of the wooden bar dropped on the other side, securing the gate.

With his arms thrown up, the palms against the paling, he slid down in a heap on the ground.
"Aissa," he said, pleadingly, pressing his lips to a chink between the stakes.