These ashes he patted flat.

Then he drew on them with the point of the pencil, tracing what seemed to me to be the rough image of a man, such as children scratch upon whitewashed walls.

When he had finished he sat up and contemplated his handiwork with all the satisfaction of an artist.

A breeze had risen from the sea and was blowing in little gusts, so that the fine ashes were disturbed, some of the lines of the picture being filled in and others altered or enlarged.
For a while Mavovo sat with his eyes shut.

Then he opened them, studied the ashes and what remained of the picture, and taking a blanket that lay near by, threw it over his own head and over the ashes.