which surrounded him, as if he would embrace the form which was to meet him under that tree. He pictured to himself the face of Adinda, her head, her shoulders; he saw the heavy kondeh (chignon), so black and glossy, confined in a net, hanging down her neck; he saw her large eye glistening in dark reflection; the nostrils which she raised so proudly as a child, when hehow was it possible? vexed her, and the corner of her lips, where she preserved a smile; he saw her breast, which would now swell under the kabaai;[1] he saw how well the sarong of her own making fitted her hips, and descending along the thighs in a curve, fell in graceful folds on the small foot.
No; he heard little of what was told him. He heard quite different tones; he heard how Adinda would say “Welcome, Saïdjah! I have thought of you in spinning and weaving, and stamping the rice on the floor, which bears three times twelve lines made by my hand. Here I am under the ‘Ketapan’ the first day of the new moon. Welcome, Saïdjah, I will be your wife.”
That was the music which resounded in his ears, and prevented him from listening to all the news that was told him on the road.
At last he saw the ‘Ketapan,’ or rather he saw a large dark spot, which many stars covered, before his eye. That must be the wood of Djati, near the tree where he should see again Adinda, next morning after sunrise. He
- ↑ Indian dress.
