Babalatchi, coming out of the red and smoky light of his little bamboo
house, glanced upwards, drew in a long breath of the warm and stagnant
air, and stood for a moment with his good eye closed tightly, as if
intimidated by the unwonted and deep silence of Lakamba's courtyard.
When he opened his eye he had recovered his sight so far, that he could
distinguish the various degrees of formless blackness which marked the
places of trees, of abandoned houses, of riverside bushes, on the dark
background of the night.
The careworn sage walked cautiously down the deserted courtyard to the
waterside, and stood on the bank listening to the voice of the invisible
river that flowed at his feet; listening to the soft whispers, to the
deep murmurs, to the sudden gurgles and the short hisses of the swift
current racing along the bank through the hot darkness.
He stood with his face turned to the river, and it seemed to him that he
could breathe easier with the knowledge of the clear vast space before
him; then, after a while he leaned heavily forward on his staff, his
chin fell on his breast, and a deep sigh was his answer to the selfish
discourse of the river that hurried on unceasing and fast, regardless of
joy or sorrow, of suffering and of strife, of failures and triumphs that
lived on its banks.
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