‘Over the child’s cot stood that naked figure, with that devilish streak in its hand. My wife, in her nightdress, stood shrieking and clutching at the figure’s arm with both hands. I reeled back, then I picked up the first thing that came handy, a knob of sorts, or a boot-jack--I don’t know--and threw it with all my force. Praise the Lord! I hit it; it turned, and by all the great and awful powers, it was Synge--Synge transfigured--a Malay,--you chaps make no mistake--a Malay, if ever there was one, in every line of his face and figure. Barring a towel wound round him, he was stark naked, and his flesh was yellow, not white; and whether my eyes went wrong or not I don’t know, but his hair seemed to hang down his naked back, instead of being cropped short, as it always is. His eyes were blazing and glaring with a sort of green light like a wild cat’s. That devilish silver streak was his Malay kriss, and he brandished it like one possessed. I’ve seen Malays run amok twice--once in Bangkok, and once in Sumatra--and if Synge wasn’t at that moment a Malay, and a Malay amok, I’m a German Jew. He didn’t look mad, only mad murderous. But there wasn’t much time for psychological speculation, I can tell you; I just had that one look from him, and then he came for me. It flashed through me, there was only one chance, and that was tracks away from the house. I took that chance, and went through the window--which I concluded afterwards must have been shut--and made those tracks. There was a straight path from the house through the native village, leading out beyond on to a long stretch of hard white sand. We went through the village--what a funk the natives were in! They scattered on each side for us--the cry had drawn them, as it had me. I remember thinking--just shows how little the mind is in hand--how amusing it must have been for them to see their revered Commissioner hunted by their respected doctor in a state of nature, and wondering if they had humour enough to appreciate the situation; we were the only white men in the island, you know. I used to be a bit of a sprinter at school, and in the ordinary course of things could give Synge about 30 yards in the 100, but that night I could only just keep away, if it can be called keeping away from a man whose breath you can feel on your neck, and whose hand you can see coming over your shoulder. It wasn’t the sort of seclusion I could have wished for. Twice he grabbed at me and missed, and then we got on to the sand, and, for some reason or other, I drew away a yard or two--perhaps my wind was better than his, though for that matter I don’t believe he had a wind, or legs either, that night.’ Hay spoke in a meditative voice that was half comic.