forth from his house into the dusk of the dawning, and to make his way to the river which poured its cool flood seaward beneath the curtain of white mist; of the long slanting sunrays beginning to dry the dew, as he walked through the wet grass to the rice-fields behind the village: of the return home, as the heat became intense, with the pale and cloudless sky overhead, and the vivid green of the vegetation covering all the earth; of the long, lazy hours spent in the cool interior of the thatched house; of the waning of the day, as the buffaloes began to troop down to water; of the falling of the night, with its smell of wood-smoke and the cooking meal; of the deep sleep that used to come to the sound of the humming chorus from the insect world without. For these things meant for him liberty—the freshness and cleanliness of God's good earth—all the common happenings. which had made life beautiful, but which till now he had never thought about or prized.
At last he could no longer restrain his passionate desire to escape, if only for a few hours, from the horrors of the pěn-jâra, and, reckless of consequences, he told the pêr-tanda that if he could be taken to a place a day's journey up the river, he could set his hand upon the missing kris which, he said. he had hidden there. He was perfectly aware that the dagger was not, and never had been, buried at that spot, for he knew as little concerning its whereabouts as the pêr-tanda himself. He could foresee that his failure would be followed by worse punishment. But he heeded not. He would breathe the fresh, un-
