Mavovo took it, and after
considering it carefully as he had done in the case of the feathers,
swept up a pile of ashes with his horny hand from the edge of the
largest of the little fires, that indeed which had represented myself.
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. Withdrawing it again presently he cast it aside and pointed to
the picture which was now quite changed. Indeed, in the moonlight, it
looked more like a landscape than anything else.
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