before he met Adinda. She, of course, would come with the very first ray of light. Why in the world could she not have come the day before? He was sad that she had not got ahead of this beautiful hour, which had fed his soul with delight for three long years.
His complaints were foolish. The sun had not yet risen. Not yet had the sun sent its long rays across the levels. To be sure, over his head, the stars were now growing paler, one by one, as if ashamed that their domination must end so soon. Strange, wild colors fluttered over the lonely mountain tops, which seemed blacker afterward. Something that shone, floated now and then, across the clouds banked in the east; arrows of gold—flame—but they fell back again into the darkness that hid the day from the eyes of Saidjah.
Gradually it became lighter. He could see the landscape. He could hear sound of the leaves from the Klappa forest behind Badur.
And yet how could she sleep? Did she not know that Saidjah was waiting for her? Probably the village watchman had just knocked at her door, and asked her why the night lamp was burning. Or perhaps she sat all night in the darkness on her rice-block, counting with her fingers the thirty six marks for the moons. Perhaps like him she was waiting for the rising of the sun.
He did not wish to go to Badur. He seated himself at the foot of the ketapan tree, and looked out over the levels. Nature smiled back at him and welcomed him. But his eyes kept turning toward the narrow
