But when toward evening Duncan Moit came to us with Ilalah, I was astonished at his placid stoicism. Grieved he certainly was, but his face expressed resolve and thoughtfulness more than despair.
“I’m awfully sorry, old man,” I said, laying a sympathetic hand upon his shoulder. “I know how long and tedious the time will seem until you are able to construct another machine as perfect as the one you have lost.”
He shuddered a little at my words but replied gently:
“Sam, I shall never build another machine. That dream is over.”
“Over!” I cried, astonished. “What do you mean? Will you abandon all your ambitions—the certain fortune that awaits you—the applause and admiration of your fellow men?”
“What do they all amount to?” he asked. “Yes; I abandon them. I’m going to live with Ilalah.”
“Here?”
“Here; in the half savage and almost unknown land of the Techlas. The result of years of labor has been wiped out of existence in a flash, and I have not the courage to begin all over again. I have no patterns of the machine and the drawings and specifications all were destroyed with it. I could never build another that would equal it in perfection. But why should I attempt it? I do not need an automobile here. I do not need fortune, or fame, or anything but love; and this Ilalah has given me freely.”
“Do I understand you to mean that you will always remain in this forsaken country?”
“That is my intention,” he said. “I shall help my wife to rule her people and in her companionship be happy in a simple, natural way.”