“Why do white people always want peace?” he asked.
“Surely peace is natural! Don’t all people want it? Don’t you?”
“Peace is only the rest after war,” he said. “So it is not more natural than fighting: perhaps not so natural.”
“No, but there is another peace: the peace that passes all understanding. Don’t you know that?”
“I don’t think I do,” he said.
“What a pity!” she cried.
“Ah!” he said. “You want to teach me! But to me it is different. Each man has two spirits in him. The one is like the early morning in the time of rain, very quiet, and sweet, moist, no?—with the mocking-bird singing, and birds flying about, very fresh. And the other is like the dry season, the steady, strong hot light of the day, which seems as if it will never change.”
“But you like the first better,” she cried.
“I don’t know!” he replied. “The other lasts longer.”
“I am sure you like the fresh morning better,” she said.