Oliver and Higgs were sleeping like logs, but my son Roderick, still dressed in his bridal robes, had risen and sat by my bed staring at me, a puzzled look upon his handsome face.
"So you are here," I said, taking his hand.

"I thought I dreamed." "No, Father," he answered in his odd English, "no dream; all true.
This is a strange world, Father.

Look at me! For how many years--twelve--fourteen, slave of savage peoples for whom I sing, priest of Fung idol, always near death but never die.

Then Sultan Barung take fancy to me, say I come of white blood and must be his daughter's husband.

Then your brother Higgs made prisoner with me and tell me that you hunt me all these years.