that side of the river?"
"Not for a long time. If I go . . ."

"True! true!" interrupted Babalatchi, soothingly, "but I go often
alone--for your good--and look--and listen. When the time comes;

when we both go together towards the Rajah's campong, it will be
to enter--and to remain."

Lakamba sat up and looked at Babalatchi gloomily.
"This is good talk, once, twice; when it is heard too often it

becomes foolish, like the prattle of children."
"Many, many times have I seen the cloudy sky and have heard the

wind of the rainy seasons," said Babalatchi, impressively.
"And where is your wisdom? It must be with the wind and the

clouds of seasons past, for I do not hear it in your talk."
"Those are the words of the ungrateful!" shouted Babalatchi, with

sudden exasperation. "Verily, our only refuge is with the One,
the Mighty, the Redresser of . . ."

"Peace! Peace!" growled the startled Lakamba. "It is but a
friend's talk."

Babalatchi subsided into his former attitude, muttering to
himself. After awhile he went on again in a louder voice--

"Since the Rajah Laut left another white man here in Sambir, the
daughter of the blind Omar el Badavi has spoken to other ears

than mine."
"Would a white man listen to a beggar's daughter?" said Lakamba,

doubtingly.
"Hai! I have seen . . ."

"And what did you see? O one-eyed one!" exclaimed Lakamba,
contemptuously.

"I have seen the strange white man walking on the narrow path
before the sun could dry the drops of dew on the bushes, and I

have heard the whisper of his voice when he spoke through the
smoke of the morning fire to that woman with big eyes and a pale

skin. Woman in body, but in heart a man! She knows no fear and
no shame. I have heard her voice too."

He nodded twice at Lakamba sagaciously and gave himself up to
silent musing, his solitary eye fixed immovably upon the straight

wall of forest on the opposite bank. Lakamba lay silent, staring
vacantly. Under them Lingard's own river rippled softlyamongst

the piles supporting the bambooplatform of the little
watch-house before which they were lying. Behind the house the

ground rose in a gentle swell of a low hill cleared of the big
timber, but thickly overgrown with the grass and bushes, now

withered and burnt up in the long drought of the dry season.
This old rice clearing, which had been several years lying

fallow, was framed on three sides by the impenetrable and tangled
growth of the untouched forest, and on the fourth came down to

the muddy river bank. There was not a breath of wind on the land
or river, but high above, in the transparent sky, little clouds

rushed past the moon, now appearing in her diffused rays with the
brilliance of silver, now obscuring her face with the blackness

of ebony. Far away, in the middle of the river, a fish would
leap now and then with a short splash, the very loudness of which

measured the profundity of the overpowering silence that
swallowed up the sharp sound suddenly.

Lakamba dozed uneasily off, but the wakeful Babalatchi sat
thinking deeply, sighing from time to time, and slapping himself

over his naked torso incessantly in a vain endeavour to keep off
an occasional and wandering mosquito that, rising as high as the

platform above the swarms of the riverside, would settle with a
ping of triumph on the unexpectedvictim. The moon, pursuing her

silent and toilsome path, attained her highest elevation, and
chasing the shadow of the roof-eaves from Lakamba's face, seemed

to hang arrested over their heads. Babalatchi revived the fire
and woke up his companion, who sat up yawning and shivering

discontentedly.
Babalatchi spoke again in a voice which was like the murmur of a

brook that runs over the stones: low, monotonous, persistent;
irresistible in its power to wear out and to destroy the hardest

obstacles. Lakamba listened, silent but interested. They were
Malay adventurers; ambitious men of that place and time; the

Bohemians of their race. In the early days of the settlement,
before the ruler Patalolo had shaken off his allegiance to the

Sultan of Koti, Lakamba appeared in the river with two small
trading vessels. He was disappointed to find already some

semblance of organization amongst the settlers of various races
who recognized the unobtrusive sway of old Patalolo, and he was

not politic enough to conceal his disappointment. He declared
himself to be a man from the east, from those parts where no

white man ruled, and to be of an oppressed race, but of a
princely family. And truly enough he had all the gifts of an

exiled prince. He was discontented, ungrateful, turbulent; a man
full of envy and ready for intrigue, with brave words and empty

promises for ever on his lips. He was obstinate, but his will
was made up of short impulses that never lasted long enough to

carry him to the goal of his ambition. Received coldly by the
suspicious Patalolo, he persisted--permission or no

permission--in clearing the ground on a good spot some fourteen
miles down the river from Sambir, and built himself a house

there, which he fortified by a high palisade. As he had many
followers and seemed very reckless, the old Rajah did not think

it prudent at the time to interfere with him by force. Once
settled, he began to intrigue. The quarrel of Patalolo with the

Sultan of Koti was of his fomenting, but failed to produce the
result he expected because the Sultan could not back him up

effectively at such a great distance. Disappointed in that
scheme, he promptly organized an outbreak of the Bugis settlers,

and besieged the old Rajah in his stockade with much noisy valour
and a fair chance of success; but Lingard then appeared on the

scene with the armed brig, and the old seaman's hairy forefinger,
shaken menacingly in his face, quelled his martialardour. No

man cared to encounter the Rajah Laut, and Lakamba, with
momentary resignation, subsided into a half-cultivator,

half-trader, and nursed in his fortified house his wrath and his
ambition, keeping it for use on a more propitious occasion.

Still faithful to his character of a prince-pretender, he would
not recognize the constituted authorities, answering sulkily the

Rajah's messenger, who claimed the tribute for the cultivated
fields, that the Rajah had better come and take it himself. By

Lingard's advice he was left alone, notwithstanding his
rebellious mood; and for many days he lived undisturbedamongst

his wives and retainers, cherishing that persistent and causeless
hope of better times, the possession of which seems to be the

universal privilege of exiled greatness.
But the passing days brought no change. The hope grew faint and

the hot ambition burnt itself out, leaving only a feeble and
expiring spark amongst a heap of dull and tepid ashes of indolent

acquiescence with the decrees of Fate, till Babalatchi fanned it
again into a bright flame. Babalatchi had blundered upon the

river while in search of a safe refuge for his disreputable head.
He was a vagabond of the seas, a true Orang-Laut, living by

rapine and plunder of coasts and ships in his prosperous days;
earning his living by honest and irksome toil when the days of

adversity were upon him. So, although at times leading the Sulu
rovers, he had also served as Serang of country ships, and in

that wise had visited the distant seas, beheld the glories of
Bombay, the might of the Mascati Sultan; had even struggled in a

pious throng for the privilege of touching with his lips the
Sacred Stone of the Holy City. He gathered experience and wisdom

in many lands, and after attaching himself to Omar el Badavi, he
affected great piety (as became a pilgrim), although unable to

read the inspired words of the Prophet. He was brave and
bloodthirsty without any affection, and he hated the white men

who interfered with the manly pursuits of throat-cutting,
kidnapping, slave-dealing, and fire-raising, that were the only

possible occupation for a true man of the sea. He found favour
in the eyes of his chief, the fearless Omar el Badavi, the leader