on, with sudden energy, "the Orang Blanda
have good friends in Sambir, or else how did they know I was coming
thence?"

Lakamba gave Dain a short and hostile glance. Babalatchi rose quietly,
and, going to the arm-rack, struck the gong violently.

Outside the door there was a shuffle of bare feet; inside, the guard woke
up and sat staring in sleepy surprise.

"Yes, you faithful friend of the white Rajah," went on Dain, scornfully,
turning to Babalatchi, who had returned to his place, "I have escaped,
and I am here to gladden your heart. When I saw the Dutch ship I ran the
brig inside the reefs and put her ashore. They did not dare to follow
with the ship, so they sent the boats. We took to ours and tried to get
away, but the ship dropped fireballs at us, and killed many of my men.
But I am left, O Babalatchi! The Dutch are coming here. They are
seeking for me. They are coming to ask their faithful friend Lakamba and
his slave Babalatchi. Rejoice!"

But neither of his hearers appeared to be in a joyful mood. Lakamba had
put one leg over his knee, and went on gently scratching it with a
meditative air, while Babalatchi, sitting cross-legged, seemed suddenly
to become smaller and very limp, staring straight before him vacantly.
The guard evinced some interest in the proceedings, stretching themselves
full length on the mats to be nearer the speaker. One of them got up and
now stood leaning against the arm-rack, playing absently with the fringes
of his sword-hilt.

Dain waited till the crash of thunder had died away in distant mutterings
before he spoke again.

"Are you dumb, O ruler of Sambir, or is the son of a great Rajah unworthy
of your notice? I am come here to seek refuge and to warn you, and want
to know what you intend doing."

"You came here because of the white man's daughter," retorted Lakamba,
quickly. "Your refuge was with your father, the Rajah of Bali, the Son
of Heaven, the 'Anak Agong' himself. What am I to protect great princes?
Only yesterday I planted rice in a burnt clearing; to-day you say I hold
your life in my hand."

Babalatchi glanced at his master. "No man can escape his fate," he
murmured piously. "When love enters a man's heart he is like a
child--without any understanding. Be merciful, Lakamba," he added,
twitching the corner of the Rajah's sarong warningly.

Lakamba snatched away the skirt of the sarong angrily. Under the dawning
comprehension of intolerable embarra