The night was very dark. For the first time in many months the East Coast slept unseen by the stars under a veil of motionless cloud that, driven before the first breath of the rainy monsoon¹, had drifted slowly from the eastward² all the afternoon; pursuing the declining sun with its masses of black and grey that seemed to chase the light with wicked intent, and with an ominous³ and gloomy steadiness, as though conscious of the message of violence and turmoil⁵ they carried. At the sun’s disappearance⁶ below the western horizon, the immense cloud, in quickened motion, grappled with the glow of retreating light, and rolling down to the clear and jagged outline of the distant mountains, hung arrested above the steaming forests; hanging low, silent and menacing over the unstirring tree-tops; withholding⁷ the blessing⁸ of rain, nursing the wrath⁹ of its thunder; undecided — as if brooding over its own power for good or for evil.

Babalatchi, coming out of the red and smoky light of his little bamboo house, glanced upwards¹⁰, drew in a long breath of the warm and stagnant¹¹ air, and stood for a moment with his good eye closed tightly, as if intimidated¹² 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.

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