waking to another day of
suffering. As the astute statesman
proceeded, Lingard's eyebrows came close, his eyes became
animated, and a big vein stood out on his
forehead, accentuating
a lowering frown. When
speaking his last words Babalatchi
faltered, then stopped, confused, before the steady gaze of the
old seaman.
Lingard rose. His face cleared, and he looked down at the
anxious Babalatchi with sudden benevolence.
"So! That's what you were after," he said, laying a heavy hand
on Babalatchi's yielding shoulder. "You thought I came here to
murder him. Hey? Speak! You
faithful dog of an Arab trader!"
"And what else, Tuan?" shrieked Babalatchi, exasperated into
sincerity. "What else, Tuan! Remember what he has done; he
poisoned our ears with his talk about you. You are a man. If
you did not come to kill, Tuan, then either I am a fool or . . ."
He paused, struck his naked breast with his open palm, and
finished in a discouraged whisper--"or, Tuan, you are."
Lingard looked down at him with
scornful serenity. After his
long and
painful gropings
amongst the obscure abominations of
Willems' conduct, the
logical if tortuous evolutions of
Babalatchi's
diplomatic mind were to him
welcome as daylight.
There was something at last he could understand--the clear effect
of a simple cause. He felt indulgent towards the disappointed
sage.
"So you are angry with your friend, O one-eyed one!" he said
slowly, nodding his
fiercecountenance close to Babalatchi's
discomfited face. "It seems to me that you must have had much to
do with what happened in Sambir
lately. Hey? You son of a burnt
father."
"May I
perish under your hand, O Rajah of the sea, if my words
are not true!" said Babalatchi, with
recklessexcitement. "You
are here in the midst of your enemies. He the greatest. Abdulla
would do nothing without him, and I could do nothing without
Abdulla. Strike me--so that you strike all!"
"Who are you," exclaimed Lingard contemptuously--"who are you to
dare call yourself my enemy! Dirt! Nothing! Go out first," he
went on
severely. "Lakas! quick. March out!"
He pushed Babalatchi through the
doorway and followed him down
the short
ladder into the
courtyard. The boatmen squatting over
the fire turned their slow eyes with
apparent difficulty towards
the two men; then, unconcerned, huddled close together again,
stretching forlornly their hands over the embers. The women
stopped in their work and with uplifted pestles flashed quick and
curious glances from the gloom under the house.
"Is that the way?" asked Lingard with a nod towards the little
wicket-gate of Willems' enclosure.
"If you seek death, that is surely the way," answered Babalatchi
in a dispassionate voice, as if he had exhausted all the
emotions. "He lives there: he who destroyed your friends; who
hastened Omar's death; who plotted with Abdulla first against
you, then against me. I have been like a child. O shame! . . .
But go, Tuan. Go there."
"I go where I like," said Lingard,
emphatically, "and you may go
to the devil; I do not want you any more. The islands of these
seas shall sink before I, Rajah Laut, serve the will of any of
your people. Tau? But I tell you this: I do not care what you
do with him after to-day. And I say that because I am
merciful."
"Tida! I do nothing," said Babalatchi, shaking his head with
bitter
apathy. "I am in Abdulla's hand and care not, even as you
do. No! no!" he added, turning away, "I have
learned much
wisdomthis morning. There are no men
anywhere. You whites are cruel
to your friends and
merciful to your enemies--which is the work
of fools."
He went away towards the
riverside, and, without once looking
back, disappeared in the low bank of mist that lay over the water
and the shore. Lingard followed him with his eyes thoughtfully.
After
awhile he roused himself and called out to his boatmen--
"Hai--ya there! After you have eaten rice, wait for me with your
paddles in your hands. You hear?"
"Ada, Tuan!" answered Ali through the smoke of the morning fire