And as the boat moved on he
looked into horrid dells which the rains had torn out of the loose
scoriae. Gaping wounds, they wore the bright hues of corruption. Their
flanks were blotched with a livid nitrous efflorescence, with flaring
sulphur, unhealthy verdure of pitchstone, streaks of arsenical
vermilion; their beds--a frantic maze of boulders.
He beheld this crazy stratification, this chaos of incandescent nature,
sent in a flame of deep blue sky and sea. It lay there calmly, like
some phantasmagoric flower, some monstrous rose that swoons away, with
upturned face, in a solar caress.
He saw it with the eye. His mind was elsewhere. He was trying, in
honest and relentless fashion, to discover himself. What if his human
values were really wrong?
Thomas, the doubting apostle. . . .
Africa had made him think; had made him more silent and reflective than
ever. And now this sudden strange stimulus of Nepenthe--it was driving
his thoughts headlong, out of their old grooves.
Here was Keith, a man of altogether different stamp, drawing
conclusions which he dared not formulate for himself.
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