together, "and his head must have been between them, and now there is no
face for you to look at. There are his flesh and his bones, the nose,
and the lips, and maybe his eyes, but nobody could tell the one from the
other. It was written the day he was born that no man could look at him
in death and be able to say, 'This is my friend's face.'"

"Silence, Mahmat; enough!" said Babalatchi, "and take thy eyes off his
anklet, thou eater of pigs flesh. Tuan Almayer," he went on, lowering
his voice, "have you seen Dain this morning?"

Almayer opened his eyes wide and looked alarmed. "No," he said quickly;
"haven't you seen him? Is he not with the Rajah? I am waiting; why does
he not come?"

Babalatchi nodded his head sadly.

"He is come, Tuan. He left last night when the storm was great and the
river spoke angrily. The night was very black, but he had within him a
light that showed the way to your house as smooth as a narrow backwater,
and the many logs no bigger than wisps of dried grass. Therefore he
went; and now he lies here." And Babalatchi nodded his head towards the
body.

"How can you tell?" said Almayer, excitedly, pushing his wife aside. He
snatched the cover off and looked at the formless mass of flesh, hair,
and drying mud, where the face of the drowned man should have been.
"Nobody can tell," he added, turning away with a shudder.

Babalatchi was on his knees wiping the mud from the stiffened fingers of
the outstretched hand. He rose to his feet and flashed before Almayer's