In the evening, as soon as dinner was over, Juanita and I passed from the hotel gardens into the broad street which runs alongside the canal. Though the rain had ceased, and it was a perfect night, hardly a soul was abroad. At intervals mysterious watchmen emerged from their shelters to look at us, but finding nothing suspicious in our behaviour, retired into them again. With these few exceptions we had the streets to ourselves. The great round moon, sailing serenely overhead through a cloudless sky, the tropic foliage, lights flashing amid the trees, all combined to produce a scene that was almost fairy-like in its exquisite loveliness. And after the cooping up of shipboard we were both in the mood to appreciate its beauty. Up one road and down another we passed, conversing quietly, until at length we found ourselves upon the King's Plain.
Here I prepared myself to broach the subject of our future. To my surprise, Juanita received my ideas with a peculiar air of fretfulness that on looking back upon now I can easily account for. At the time, however, I remember it caused me a considerable amount of pain.
Under a small tope of trees she stopped, and placing her hand on my arm, said in answer to a speech of mine—
"You are quite right. I fear this is the end of everything for us. When we leave Batavia our ways must lie in different directions."
"You mean," I continued, "because you believe your husband to be still alive?"
She hesitated before replying.
"Yes," she finally answered. But there was something in her voice that made me believe that though she gave it that reason, it was not exactly what was in her mind.
"And what will you do now, Juanita?"
"Endeavour to find that man, and repay him for his treachery. That's what I shall do."
Simple as were her words, I cannot express on paper anything like the ferocity of the tone in which they were uttered. But this mood only lasted a few seconds. Then came the old wail.