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except of a blow, and no vivid feeling but that of occasional hunger, which was seldom, for Bulangi was rich and rice was plentiful in the solitary house in his clearing.  The absence of pain and hunger was her happiness, and when she felt unhappy she was simply tired, more than usual, after the day’s labour.  Then in the hot nights of the south-west monsoon she slept dreamlessly under the bright stars on the platform built outside the house and over the river.  Inside they slept too: Bulangi by the door; his wives further in; the children with their mothers.  She could hear their breathing; Bulangi’s sleepy voice; the sharp cry of a child soon hushed with tender words.  And she closed her eyes to the murmur of the water below her, to the whisper of the warm wind above, ignorant of the never-ceasing life of that tropical nature that spoke to her in vain with the thousand faint voices of the near forest, with the breath of tepid wind; in the heavy scents that lingered around her head; in the white wraiths of morning mist that hung over her in the solemn hush of all creation before the dawn.
    Such had been her existence before the coming of the brig with the strangers.  She remembered well that time; the uproar in the settlement, the never-ending wonder, the days and nights of talk and excitement.  She remembered her own timidity with the strange men, till the brig moored to the bank became in a manner part of the settlement, and the fear wore off in the familiarity of constant intercourse.  The call on board then became part of her daily round.  She walked hesitatingly up the slanting planks of the gangway amidst the encouraging shouts and more or less decent jokes of the men idling over the bulwarks.  There she sold her wares to those men that spoke so loud and carried themselves so free.  There was a throng, a constant coming and going; calls interchanged, orders given and executed with shouts; the rattle of blocks, the flinging about of coils of rope.  She sat out of the way under the shade of the awning, with her tray before her, the veil drawn well over her face, feeling shy amongst so many men.  She smiled at all buyers, but spoke to none, letting their jests pass with stolid unconcern.  She heard many tales told around her of far-off countries, of strange customs, of events stranger still.  Those men were brave; but the most fearless of them spoke of their chief with fear.  Often the man they called their master passed before her, walking erect and indifferent, in the pride of youth, in the flash of rich dress, with a tinkle of gold ornaments, while everybody stood aside watching anxiously for a movement of his lips, ready to do his bidding.  Then all her life seemed to rush into her eyes, and from under her veil she gazed at him, charmed, yet fearful to attract attention.  One day he noticed her and asked, “Who is that girl?”  “A slave, Tuan!  A girl that sells cakes,” a dozen voices replied together.  She rose in terror to run on shore, when he called her back; and as she stood trembling with head hung down before him, he spoke kind words, lifting her chin with his hand and looking into her eyes with a smile.  “Do not be afraid,” he said.  He never spoke to her any more.  Somebody called out from the river bank; he turned away and forgot her existence.  Taminah saw Almayer standing on the shore with Nina on his arm.  She heard Nina’s voice calling out gaily, and saw Dain’s face brighten with joy as he leaped on shore.  She hated the sound of that voice ever since.
    After that day she left off visiting Almayer’s compound, and passed the noon hours under the shade of the brig awning.  She watched for his coming with heart beating quicker and quicker, as he approached, into a wild tumult of newly-aroused feelings of joy and hope and fear that died away with Dain’s retreating figure, leaving her tired out, as if after a struggle, sitting still for a long time in dreamy languor.  Then she paddled home slowly in the afternoon, often letting her canoe float with the lazy stream in the quiet backwater of the river.  The paddle hung idle in the water as she sat in the stern, one hand supporting her chin, her eyes wide open, listening intently to the whispering of her heart that seemed to swell at last into a song of extreme sweetness.  Listening to that song she husked the rice at home; it dulled her ears to the shrill bickerings of Bulangi’s wives, to the sound