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God had given him a character benign and just, a heart tempered to mercy and kindliness; all these qualities had been outraged and were now under arms. They had given a mandate to the original man to act. The death of Meeus was the first result. He went to the shelf where Meeus had kept his official letters and took Meeus's Mauser pistol from it. It was in a holster attached to a belt.
A scorpion twice the size of a penny was making a circuit of the walls just below the ceiling; you could hear a faint scratch from it as it travelled along, a scratch that seemed an echo of Meeus's pen as it travelled across the paper. He held between his lips the everlasting cigarette.
Rapid steps sounded coming across the courtyard, and the sweat ran from Meeus's face and his stomach crawled as, with a bound across the veranda, a huge man framed himself in the doorway and stood motionless as a statue. For the first moment Meeus did not recognize Adams.
And that is the fact that will strike you most if you travel in the wilds of the Congo State and talk to the men of your own colour who are condemned to live amongst the people. One might have compared Meeus's voice to the voice of a violin a violin that had been attacked by some strange fungoid growth that had filled its interior and dulled the sounding board.
The Hostage House of Yandjali would have told Maxine infinitely more than it told Adams. She would have read in Meeus's face a story that he never deciphered; she would have seen in the people of the Silent Pools a whole nation in chains, when he with his other-people-begotten ideas of niggers and labour only saw a few recalcitrant blacks.
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