This glossy gunwale, polished by bare feet, was after all the sole reality, a shining line between life and death.
"Then I must die," he groaned, and wrenched his hands away from that perilous boundary.
He vaguely heard her cry out, vaguely saw Chantel rise above the lantern and slash down at him with the lowdah's pole.

The bamboo struck him, heavy but glancing, on the head.

He staggered, lost his footing, and fell into the mud, where, as though his choice had already overtaken him, he lay without thought or emotion, watching the dim light float off into the darkness.
By and by it was gone.

From somewhere in another direction came a sharp, continual, crackling fusillade, like the snapping of dry bamboo-joints in a fire.

The unstirring night grew heavier with the smell of burnt gunpowder.