Soon I couldn’t bear the thought of parting with Pito. He must come with me to Bali. His body, starvation thin, needed care and food. These he could have. I would see that he went to school – received an education. It would be a pleasant life.

‘No,’ he said, ‘a Java boy needs no schooling.’

It was this that had brought his father to ruin. The gods are angered by too much white man’s learning.

But I couldn’t desert Pito. I decided to cross Bali Strait at night with the boy asleep in the car, and afterward try to persuade him once more to remain with me in Bali.

The first part of my plan was successful. Pito slept soundly while the fishermen, signaled to be quiet, rolled the car into place on the light vessel, a craft so narrow it was impossible either to enter or leave the car while we were on the water. Sails were hoisted silently and the prau, heavy laden, bobbed slowly into the darkness.

All went well until we reached the uninhabited and deserted beach of the island of my dreams. As the car was being unloaded, Pito woke up. I had to tell him that we were in Bali and that Java was five miles across the strait.

For a moment he stood rigid. Then his eyes distended and he screamed.

‘Take me back – take me back!’ he shouted. ‘Bali full of leyaks – I die here –’ Then he collapsed into complete hysteria. He wept while the fishermen whispered among themselves.

So Bali was not yet attained. It was Pito who suggested that the car be left on the beach while we sailed back across the strait to Banjuwangi. I had desired freedom for myself. I could not take freedom from another.

It was an anticlimax, our arrival in Banjuwangi: the purchase of a train ticket to the village nearest where I had first seen Pito; the giving of a little money, food for the journey, some new clothing; and the writing down of my name should Pito ever wish to come to Bali, with the address of the American consul who might know where I could be found. At the end Pito was calm, silent and somewhat moody. His glances were sidelong and his underlip quivered a little. He removed the new and tightly rolled sarong from around his waist and drew forth an oddly shaped and hammered silver box. From this he took out a small carved wooden figure.

‘This is a good luck charm,’ he said. ‘Saved me many times from evil spirits. Very powerful. So you take this, kind American lady, and keep it with you always. The train comes now. I go. I thank you very much.’

‘Selamet tinggal!’ he shouted as the train moved away. That means, Live in peace.

‘Selamet djalan, Pito.’ Go in Peace.

It is difficult for me to describe how I felt as I stood there, once again alone. My adventure had now begun in earnest.