“How much time have you to spare?” asked the stranger.
“Well, say perhaps three months.”
“That will do,” returned his questioner, looking thoughtfully at the ground. “We will talk of this hereafter.”
“But—excuse me,” said Nigel, “your man spoke of you as a hermit—a sort of—of—forgive me—a wild-man-of-the-island, if I may—”
“No, I didn’t, Massa Nadgel,” said the negro, the edge of whose flat contradiction was taken off by the extreme humility of his look.
“Well,” returned Nigel, with a laugh; “you at least gave me to understand that other people said something of that sort.”
“Da’s right, Massa Nadgel—kite right. You’re k’rect now.”
“People have indeed got some strange ideas about me, I believe,” interposed the hermit, with a grave almost sad expression and tone. “But come, let me introduce you to my hermitage and you shall judge for yourself.”
So saying, this singular being turned and led the way further up the rugged side of the peak of Rakata.
After about five minutes’ walk in silence, the trio reached a spot where there was a clear view over the tree-tops, revealing the blue waters of the strait, with the Java shores and mountains in the distance.