Allah wills. They are in the hands of the Compassionate. No
doubt. And so is Syed Abdulla, the great trader who does not

know what the word failure means; and so is the white man--the
smartest business man in the islands--who is lying now by Omar's

fire with his head on Aissa's lap, while Syed Abdulla flies down
the muddy river with current and paddles between the sombre walls

of the sleeping forest; on his way to the clear and open sea
where the Lord of the Isles (formerly of Greenock, but condemned,

sold, and registered now as of Penang) waits for its owner, and
swings erratically at anchor in the currents of the capricious

tide, under the crumbling red cliffs of Tanjong Mirrah.
For some time Lakamba, Sahamin, and Bahassoen looked silently

into the humid darkness which had swallowed the big canoe that
carried Abdulla and his unvarying good fortune. Then the two

guests broke into a talk expressive of their joyful
anticipations. The venerable Sahamin, as became his advanced

age, found his delight in speculation as to the activities of a
rather remote future. He would buy praus, he would send

expeditions up the river, he would enlarge his trade, and, backed
by Abdulla's capital, he would grow rich in a very few years.

Very few. Meantime it would be a good thing to interview Almayer
to-morrow and, profiting by the last day of the hated man's

prosperity, obtain some goods from him on credit. Sahamin
thought it could be done by skilful wheedling. After all, that

son of Satan was a fool, and the thing was worth doing, because
the coming revolution would wipe all debts out. Sahamin did not

mind imparting that idea to his companions, with much senile
chuckling, while they strolled together from the riverside

towards the residence. The bull-necked Lakamba, listening with
pouted lips without the sign of a smile, without a gleam in his

dull, bloodshot eyes, shuffled slowly across the courtyard
between his two guests. But suddenly Bahassoen broke in upon the

old man's prattle with the generousenthusiasm of his youth. . .
. Trading was very good. But was the change that would make

them happy effected yet? The white man should be despoiled with
a strong hand! . . . He grew excited, spoke very loud, and his

further discourse, delivered with his hand on the hilt of his
sword, dealt incoherently with the honourable topics of

throat-cutting, fire-raising, and with the far-famed valour of
his ancestors.

Babalatchi remained behind, alone with the greatness of his
conceptions. The sagacious statesman of Sambir sent a scornful

glance after his noble protector and his noble protector's
friends, and then stood meditating about that future which to the

others seemed so assured. Not so to Babalatchi, who paid the
penalty of his wisdom by a vague sense of insecurity that kept

sleep at arm's length from his tired body. When he thought at
last of leaving the waterside, it was only to strike a path for

himself and to creep along the fences, avoiding the middle of the
courtyard where small fires glimmered and winked as though the

sinister darkness there had reflected the stars of the serene
heaven. He slunk past the wicket-gate of Omar's enclosure, and

crept on patiently along the light bamboo palisade till he was
stopped by the angle where it joined the heavy stockade of

Lakamba's private ground. Standing there, he could look over the
fence and see Omar's hut and the fire before its door. He could

also see the shadow of two human beings sitting between him and
the red glow. A man and a woman. The sight seemed to inspire

the careworn sage with a frivolous desire to sing. It could
hardly be called a song; it was more in the nature of a

recitative without any rhythm, delivered rapidly but distinctly
in a croaking and unsteady voice; and if Babalatchi considered it

a song, then it was a song with a purpose and, perhaps for that
reason, artistically defective. It had all the imperfections of

unskilful improvisation and its subject was gruesome. It told a
tale of shipwreck and of thirst, and of one brother killing

another for the sake of a gourd of water. A repulsive story
which might have had a purpose but possessed no moral whatever.

Yet it must have pleased Babalatchi for he repeated it twice, the
second time even in louder tones than at first, causing a

disturbance amongst the white rice-birds and the wild
fruit-pigeons which roosted on the boughs of the big tree growing

in Omar's compound. There was in the thick foliage above the
singer's head a confused beating of wings, sleepy remarks in

bird-language, a sharp stir of leaves. The forms by the fire
moved; the shadow of the woman altered its shape, and

Babalatchi's song was cut short abruptly by a fit of soft and
persistent coughing. He did not try to resume his efforts after

that interruption, but went away stealthily to seek--if not
sleep--then, at least, repose.

CHAPTER SIX
As soon as Abdulla and his companions had left the enclosure,

Aissa approached Willems and stood by his side. He took no
notice of her expectant attitude till she touched him gently,

when he turned furiously upon her and, tearing off her face-veil,
trampled upon it as though it had been a mortal enemy. She

looked at him with the faint smile of patient curiosity, with the
puzzled interest of ignorance watching the running of a

complicated piece of machinery. After he had exhausted his rage,
he stood again severe and unbending looking down at the fire, but

the touch of her fingers at the nape of his neck effaced
instantly the hard lines round his mouth; his eyes wavered

uneasily; his lips trembled slightly. Starting with the
unresisting rapidity of a particle of iron--which, quiescent one

moment, leaps in the next to a powerful magnet--he moved forward,
caught her in his arms and pressed her violently to his breast.

He released her as suddenly, and she stumbled a little, stepped
back, breathed quickly through her parted lips, and said in a

tone of pleased reproof--
"O Fool-man! And if you had killed me in your strong arms what

would you have done?"
"You want to live . . . and to run away from me again," he said

gently. "Tell me--do you?"
She moved towards him with very short steps, her head a little on

one side, hands on hips, with a slight balancing of her body: an
approach more tantalizing than an escape. He looked on,

eager--charmed. She spoke jestingly.
"What am I to say to a man who has been away three days from me?

Three!" she repeated, holding up playfully three fingers before
Willems' eyes. He snatched at the hand, but she was on her guard

and whisked it behind her back.
"No!" she said. "I cannot be caught. But I will come. I am

coming myself because I like. Do not move. Do not touch me with
your mighty hands, O child!"

As she spoke she made a step nearer, then another. Willems did
not stir. Pressing against him she stood on tiptoe to look into

his eyes, and her own seemed to grow bigger, glistening and
tender, appealing and promising. With that look she drew the

man's soul away from him through his immobile pupils, and from
Willems' features the spark of reason vanished under her gaze and

was replaced by an appearance of physicalwell-being, an ecstasy
of the senses which had taken possession of his rigid body; an

ecstasy that drove out regrets, hesitation and doubt, and
proclaimed its terrible work by an appallingaspect of idiotic

beatitude. He never stirred a limb, hardly breathed, but stood
in stiff immobility, absorbing the delight of her close contact

by every pore.
"Closer! Closer!" he murmured.

Slowly she raised her arms, put them over his shoulders, and
clasping her hands at the back of his neck, swung off the full

length of her arms. Her head fell back, the eyelids dropped
slightly, and her thick hair hung straight down: a mass of ebony

touched by the red gleams of the fire. He stood unyielding under
the strain, as solid and motionless as one of the big trees of

the surrounding forests; and his eyes looked at the modelling of
her chin, at the outline of her neck, at the swelling lines of