into the darkness of Omar's hut; heard them exchange the usual
greetings and the distinguished" target="_blank" title="a.卓越的，著名的">distinguished visitor's grave voice asking:

"There is no misfortune--please God--but the sight?" and then,
becoming aware of the disapproving looks of the two Arabs who had

accompanied Abdulla, he followed their example and fell back out
of earshot. He did it unwillingly, although he did not ignore

that what was going to happen in there was now absolutely beyond
his control. He roamed irresolutely about for awhile, and at

last wandered with careless steps towards the fire, which had
been moved, from under the tree, close to the hut and a little to

windward of its entrance. He squatted on his heels and began
playing pensively with live embers, as was his habit when

engrossed in thought, withdrawing his hand sharply and shaking it
above his head when he burnt his fingers in a fit of deeper

abstraction. Sitting there he could hear the murmur of the talk
inside the hut, and he could distinguish the voices but not the

words. Abdulla spoke in deep tones, and now and then this
flowing monotone was interrupted by a querulous exclamation, a

weak moan or a plaintive quaver of the old man. Yes. It was
annoying not to be able to make out what they were saying,

thought Babalatchi, as he sat gazing fixedly at the unsteady glow
of the fire. But it will be right. All will be right. Abdulla

inspired him with confidence. He came up fully to his
expectation. From the very first moment when he set his eye on

him he felt sure that this man--whom he had known by reputation
only--was very resolute. Perhaps too resolute. Perhaps he would

want to grasp too much later on. A shadow flitted over
Babalatchi's face. On the eve of the accomplishment of his

desires he felt the bitter taste of that drop of doubt which is
mixed with the sweetness of every success.

When, hearing footsteps on the verandah of the big house, he
lifted his head, the shadow had passed away and on his face there

was an expression of watchful alertness. Willems was coming down
the plankway, into the courtyard. The light within trickled

through the cracks of the badly joined walls of the house, and in
the illuminated doorway appeared the moving form of Aissa. She

also passed into the night outside and disappeared from view.
Babalatchi wondered where she had got to, and for the moment

forgot the approach of Willems. The voice of the white man
speaking roughly above his head made him jump to his feet as if

impelled upwards by a powerful spring.
"Where's Abdulla?"

Babalatchi waved his hand towards the hut and stood listening
intently. The voices within had ceased, then recommenced again.

He shot an oblique glance at Willems, whose indistinct form
towered above the glow of dying embers.

"Make up this fire," said Willems, abruptly. "I want to see your
face."

With obliging alacrity Babalatchi put some dry brushwood on the
coals from a handy pile, keeping all the time a watchful eye on

Willems. When he straightened himself up his hand wandered
almost involuntarily towards his left side to feel the handle of

a kriss amongst the folds of his sarong, but he tried to look
unconcerned under the angry stare.

"You are in good health, please God?" he murmured.
"Yes!" answered Willems, with an unexpectedloudness that caused

Babalatchi to start nervously. "Yes! . . . Health! . . . You .
. ."

He made a long stride and dropped both his hands on the Malay's
shoulders. In the powerful grip Babalatchi swayed to and fro

limply, but his face was as peaceful as when he sat--a little
while ago--dreaming by the fire. With a final vicious jerk

Willems let go suddenly, and turning away on his heel stretched
his hands over the fire. Babalatchi stumbled backwards,

recovered himself, and wriggled his shoulders laboriously.
"Tse! Tse! Tse!" he clicked, deprecatingly. After a short

silence he went on with accentuated admiration: "What a man it
is! What a strong man! A man like that"--he concluded, in a

tone of meditative wonder--"a man like that could upset
mountains--mountains!"

He gazed hopefully for a while at Willems' broad shoulders, and
continued, addressing the inimical back, in a low and persuasive

voice--
"But why be angry with me? With me who think only of your good?

Did I not give her refuge, in my own house? Yes, Tuan! This is
my own house. I will let you have it without any recompense

because she must have a shelter. Therefore you and she shall
live here. Who can know a woman's mind? And such a woman! If

she wanted to go away from that other place, who am I--to say no!
I am Omar's servant. I said: 'Gladden my heart by taking my

house.' Did I say right?"
"I'll tell you something," said Willems, without changing his

position; "if she takes a fancy to go away from this place it is
you who shall suffer. I will wring your neck."

"When the heart is full of love there is no room in it for
justice," recommenced Babalatchi, with unmoved and persistent

softness. "Why slay me? You know, Tuan, what she wants. A
splendid destiny is her desire--as of all women. You have been

wronged and cast out by your people. She knows that. But you
are brave, you are strong--you are a man; and, Tuan--I am older

than you--you are in her hand. Such is the fate of strong men.
And she is of noble birth and cannot live like a slave. You know

her--and you are in her hand. You are like a snared bird,
because of your strength. And--remember I am a man that has seen

much--submit, Tuan! Submit! . . . Or else . . ."
He drawled out the last words in a hesitating manner and broke

off his sentence. Still stretching his hands in turns towards
the blaze and without moving his head, Willems gave a short,

lugubrious laugh, and asked--
"Or else what?"

"She may go away again. Who knows?" finished Babalatchi, in a
gentle and insinuating tone.

This time Willems spun round sharply. Babalatchi stepped back.
"If she does it will be the worse for you," said Willems, in a

menacing voice. "It will be your doing, and I . . ."
Babalatchi spoke, from beyond the circle of light, with calm

disdain.
"Hai--ya! I have heard before. If she goes--then I die. Good!

Will that bring her back do you think--Tuan? If it is my doing
it shall be well done, O white man! and--who knows--you will have

to live without her."
Willems gasped and started back like a confident wayfarer who,

pursuing a path he thinks safe, should see just in time a
bottomless chasm under his feet. Babalatchi came into the light

and approached Willems sideways, with his head thrown back and a
little on one side so as to bring his only eye to bear full on

the countenance of the tall white man.
"You threaten me," said Willems, indistinctly.

"I, Tuan!" exclaimed Babalatchi, with a slight suspicion of irony
in the affected surprise of his tone. "I, Tuan? Who spoke of

death? Was it I? No! I spoke of life only. Only of life. Of a
long life for a lonely man!"

They stood with the fire between them, both silent, both aware,
each in his own way, of the importance of the passing minutes.

Babalatchi's fatalism gave him only an insignificantrelief in
his suspense, because no fatalism can kill the thought of the

future, the desire of success, the pain of waiting for the