Martin of Nitendi and the River of Dreams

Half-way up the side of the mountain which overlooked the waters of / the little land-locked harbour there was a space clear of timber. Huge, / jagged rocks, whose surfaces were covered with creepers and grey moss, / protruded from the soil, and on the highest of these a man was lying at / full length, looking at the gunboat anchored half a mile away. He was / clothed in a girdle of _ti_ leaves only; his feet were bare, cut, and / bleeding; round his waist was strapped a leather belt with an empty / cartridge pouch; his brawny right hand grasped a Snider rifle; his / head-covering was a roughly made cap of coconut-nut leaf, with a / projecting peak, designed to shield his blood-shot, savage eyes from / the sun. Yet he had been a White Man. For nearly an hour he had been / watching, ever since the dawn had broken. Far below him, thin, wavering / curls of pale blue smoke were arising from the site of the native / village, fired by the bluejackets on the previous evening. The ruins of / his own house he could discern by the low stone wall surrounding it; / as for the native huts which, the day before, had clustered so thickly / around his own dwelling, there was now no trace save heaps of grey / ashes.

A boat put off from the ship, and as the yellow-bladed oars flashed in / the sunlight the man drew his rifle close up to his side and his eyes / gleamed with a deadly hatred.