trader here; the master here. Do you bring me a declaration of
war? Then it's from yourself only. I know all my other enemies.

I ought to knock you on the head. You are not worth powder and
shot though. You ought to be destroyed with a stick--like a

snake."
Almayer's voice woke up the little girl, who sat up on the pillow

with a sharp cry. He rushed over to the chair, caught up the
child in his arms, walked back blindly, stumbled against Willems'

hat which lay on the floor, and kicked it furiously down the
steps.

"Clear out of this! Clear out!" he shouted.
Willems made an attempt to speak, but Almayer howled him down.

"Take yourself off! Don't you see you frighten the child--you
scarecrow! No, no! dear," he went on to his little daughter,

soothingly, while Willems walked down the steps slowly. "No.
Don't cry. See! Bad man going away. Look! He is afraid of

your papa. Nasty, bad man. Never come back again. He shall
live in the woods and never come near my little girl. If he

comes papa will kill him--so!" He struck his fist on the rail of
the balustrade to show how he would kill Willems, and, perching

the consoled child on his shoulder held her with one hand, while
he pointed toward the retreating figure of his visitor.

"Look how he runs away, dearest," he said, coaxingly. "Isn't he
funny. Call 'pig' after him, dearest. Call after him."

The seriousness of her face vanished into dimples. Under the long
eyelashes, glistening with recent tears, her big eyes sparkled

and danced with fun. She took firm hold of Almayer's hair with
one hand, while she waved the other joyously and called out with

all her might, in a clear note, soft and distinct like the pipe
of a bird:--

"Pig! Pig! Pig!"
CHAPTER TWO

A sigh under the flaming blue, a shiver of the sleeping sea, a
cool breath as if a door had been swung upon the frozen spaces of

the universe, and with a stir of leaves, with the nod of boughs,
with the tremble of slender branches the sea breeze struck the

coast, rushed up the river, swept round the broad reaches, and
travelled on in a soft ripple of darkening water, in the whisper

of branches, in the rustle of leaves of the awakened forests. It
fanned in Lakamba's campong the dull red of expiring embers into

a pale brilliance; and, under its touch, the slender, upright
spirals of smoke that rose from every glowing heap swayed,

wavered, and eddying down filled the twilight of clustered shade
trees with the aromatic scent of the burning wood. The men who

had been dozing in the shade during the hot hours of the
afternoon woke up, and the silence of the big courtyard was

broken by the hesitating murmur of yet sleepy voices, by coughs
and yawns, with now and then a burst of laughter, a loud hail, a

name or a joke sent out in a soft drawl. Small groups squatted
round the little fires, and the monotonous undertone of talk

filled the enclosure; the talk of barbarians, persistent, steady,
repeating itself in the soft syllables, in musical tones of the

never-ending discourses of those men of the forests and the sea,
who can talk most of the day and all the night; who never exhaust

a subject, never seem able to thresh a matter out; to whom that
talk is poetry and painting and music, all art, all history;

their only accomplishment, their only superiority, their only
amusement. The talk of camp fires, which speaks of bravery and

cunning, of strange events and of far countries, of the news of
yesterday and the news of to-morrow. The talk about the dead and

the living--about those who fought and those who loved.
Lakamba came out on the platform before his own house and sat

down--perspiring, half asleep, and sulky--in a wooden armchair
under the shade of the overhanging eaves. Through the darkness

of the doorway he could hear the soft warbling of his womenkind,
busy round the looms where they were weaving the checkered

pattern of his gala sarongs. Right and left of him on the
flexible bamboo floor those of his followers to whom their

distinguished birth, long devotion, or faithful service had given
the privilege of using the chief's house, were sleeping on mats

or just sat up rubbing their eyes: while the more wakeful had
mustered enough energy to draw a chessboard with red clay on a

fine mat and were now meditating silently over their moves.
Above the prostrate forms of the players, who lay face downward

supported on elbow, the soles of their feet waving irresolutely
about, in the absorbed meditation of the game, there towered here

and there the straight figure of an attentivespectator looking
down with dispassionate but profound interest. On the edge of

the platform a row of high-heeled leather sandals stood ranged
carefully in a level line, and against the rough wooden rail

leaned the slender shafts of the spears belonging to these
gentlemen, the broad blades of dulled steel looking very black in

the reddening light of approaching sunset.
A boy of about twelve--the personal attendant of Lakamba--

squatted at his master's feet and held up towards him a silver
siri box. Slowly Lakamba took the box, opened it, and tearing

off a piece of green leaf deposited in it a pinch of lime, a
morsel of gambier, a small bit of areca nut, and wrapped up the

whole with a dexterous twist. He paused, morsel in hand, seemed
to miss something, turned his head from side to side,

slowly, like a man with a stiff neck, and ejaculated in an
ill-humoured bass--

"Babalatchi!"
The players glanced up quickly, and looked down again directly.

Those men who were standing stirred uneasily as if prodded by the
sound of the chief's voice. The one nearest to Lakamba repeated

the call, after a while, over the rail into the courtyard. There
was a movement of upturned faces below by the fires, and the cry

trailed over the enclosure in sing-song tones. The thumping of
wooden pestles husking the evening rice stopped for a moment and

Babalatchi's name rang afresh shrilly on women's lips in various
keys. A voice far off shouted something--another, nearer,

repeated it; there was a short hubbub which died out with extreme
suddenness. The first crier turned to Lakamba, saying

indolently--
"He is with the blind Omar."

Lakamba's lips moved inaudibly. The man who had just spoken was
again deeply absorbed in the game going on at his feet; and the

chief--as if he had forgotten all about it already--sat with a
stolid face amongst his silent followers, leaning back squarely

in his chair, his hands on the arms of his seat, his knees apart,
his big blood-shot eyes blinking solemnly, as if dazzled by the

noble vacuity of his thoughts.
Babalatchi had gone to see old Omar late in the afternoon. The

delicate manipulation of the ancient pirate's susceptibilities,
the skilful management of Aissa's violent impulses engrossed him

to the exclusion of every other business--interfered with his
regular attendance upon his chief and protector--even disturbed

his sleep for the last three nights. That day when he left his
own bamboo hut--which stood amongst others in Lakamba's

campong--his heart was heavy with anxiety and with doubt as to
the success of his intrigue. He walked slowly, with his usual

air of detachment from his surroundings, as if unaware that many
sleepy eyes watched from all parts of the courtyard his progress

towards a small gate at its upper end. That gate gave access to
a separate enclosure in which a rather large house, built of

planks, had been prepared by Lakamba's orders for the reception
of Omar and Aissa. It was a superior kind of habitation which

Lakamba intended for the dwelling of his chief adviser--whose
abilities were worth that honour, he thought. But after the

consultation in the deserted clearing--when Babalatchi had
disclosed his plan--they both had agreed that the new house

should be used at first to shelter Omar and Aissa after they had
been persuaded to leave the Rajah's place, or had been kidnapped