And still there was nobody on the path leading from Badoer to the Ketapan.
Oh! she must have fallen asleep towards morning, tired of watching during the night, of watching for many nights:—she had not slept for weeks: so it was!
Should he rise and go to Badoer!—No, that would be doubting her arrival. Should he call that man who was driving his buffalo to the field? . . . . That man was too far off, and moreover, Saïdjah would speak to no one about Adinda, would ask no one after Adinda. . . . He would see her again, he would see her alone, he would see her first. Oh, surely, surely she would soon come!
He would wait, wait. . . .
But if she were ill, or. . . . dead?
Like a wounded stag Saïdjah flew along the path leading from the ‘Ketapan’ to the village where Adinda lived. He saw nothing and heard nothing; and yet he could have heard something, for there were men standing in the road at the entrance of the village, who cried—“Saïdjah, Saïdjah!”
But? . . . . was it his hurry, his eagerness, that prevented him from finding Adinda’s house? He had already rushed fo the end of the road, through the village, and like one mad, he returned and beat his head, because he must have passed her house without seeing it. But again he was at the entrance of the village, and, . . . . Oh God, was it a dream? . . .
