vague threats of personal
violence, while he eyed malevolently the aged statesman sitting with
quiet obstinacy by his domestic rice-pot.

CHAPTER V.

At last the excitement had died out in Sambir. The inhabitants got used
to the sight of comings and goings between Almayer's house and the
vessel, now moored to the opposite bank, and speculation as to the
feverish activity displayed by Almayer's boatmen in repairing old canoes
ceased to interfere with the due discharge of domestic duties by the
women of the Settlement. Even the baffled Jim-Eng left off troubling his
muddled brain with secrets of trade, and relapsed by the aid of his opium
pipe into a state of stupefied bliss, letting Babalatchi pursue his way
past his house uninvited and seemingly unnoticed.

So on that warm afternoon, when the deserted river sparkled under the
vertical sun, the statesman of Sambir could, without any hindrance from
friendly inquirers, shove off his little canoe from under the bushes,
where it was usually hidden during his visits to Almayer's compound.
Slowly and languidly Babalatchi paddled, crouching low in the boat,
making himself small under his as enormous sun hat to escape the
scorching heat reflected from the water. He was not in a hurry; his
master, Lakamba, was surely reposing at this time of the day. He would
have ample time to cross over and greet him on his waking with important
news. Will he be displeased? Will he strike his ebony wood staff
angrily on the floor, frightening him by the incoherent violence of his
exclamations; or will he squat down with a good-humoured smile, and,
rubbing his hands gently over his stomach with a familiar gesture,
expectorate copiously into the brass siri-vessel, giving vent to a low,
approbative murmur? Such were Babalatchi's thoughts as he skilfully
handled his paddle, crossing the river on his way to the Rajah's campong,
whose stockades showed from behind the dense foliage of the bank just
opposite to Almayer's bungalow.

Indeed, he had a report to make. Something certain at last to confirm
the daily tale of suspicions, the daily hints of familiarity, of stolen
glances he had seen, of short and burning words he had overheard
exchanged between Dain Maroola and Almayer's daughter.

Lakamba had, till then, listened to it all, calmly and with evident
distrust; now he was going to be convinced, for Babalatchi had the proof;
had it this very morning, when fishing at break of d