hall be near his house before the night is half over, and that I want
him to make all things ready for a long journey. You understand? A long
journey to the southward. Tell him that before sunset, and do not forget
my words."

Taminah made a gesture of assent, and watched Babalatchi recross the
ditch and disappear through the bushes bordering Almayer's compound. She
moved a little further off the creek and sank in the grass again, lying
down on her face, shivering in dry-eyed misery.

Babalatchi walked straight towards the cooking-shed looking for Mrs.
Almayer. The courtyard was in a great uproar. A strange Chinaman had
possession of the kitchen fire and was noisily demanding another
saucepan. He hurled objurgations, in the Canton dialect and bad Malay,
against the group of slave-girls standing a little way off, half
frightened, half amused, at his violence. From the camping fires round
which the seamen of the frigate were sitting came words of encouragement,
mingled with laughter and jeering. In the midst of this noise and
confusion Babalatchi met Ali, an empty dish in his hand.

"Where are the white men?" asked Babalatchi.

"They are eating in the front verandah," answered Ali. "Do not stop me,
Tuan. I am giving the white men their food and am busy."

"Where's Mem Almayer?"

"Inside in the passage. She is listening to the talk."

Ali grinned and passed on; Babalatchi ascended the plankway to the rear
verandah, and beckoning out Mrs. Almayer, engaged her in earnest
conversation. Through the long passage, closed at the further end by the
red curtain, they could hear from time to time Almayer's voice mingling
in conversation with an abrupt loudness that made Mrs. Almayer look
significantly at Babalatchi.

"Listen," she said. "He has drunk much."

"He has," whispered Babalatchi. "He will sleep heavily to-night."

Mrs. Almayer looked doubtful.

"Sometimes the devil of strong gin makes him keep awake, and he walks up
and down the verandah all night, cursing; then we stand afar off,"
explained Mrs. Almayer, with the fuller knowledge born of twenty odd
years of married life.

"But then he does not hear, nor understand, and his hand, of course, has
no strength. We do not want him to hear to-night."

"No," assented Mrs. Almayer, energetically, but in a cautiously subdued
voice. "If he hears he will kill."

Babalatchi looked incredulous.

"Hai Tuan, you may believe me. Have I not lived many ye