ars with that
man? Have I not seen death in that man's eyes more than once when I was
younger and he guessed at many things. Had he been a man of my own
people I would not have seen such a look twice; but he--"

With a contemptuous gesture she seemed to fling unutterable scorn on
Almayer's weak-minded aversion to sudden bloodshed.

"If he has the wish but not the strength, then what do we fear?" asked
Babalatchi, after a short silence during which they both listened to
Almayer's loud talk till it subsided into the murmur of general
conversation. "What do we fear?" repeated Babalatchi again.

"To keep the daughter whom he loves he would strike into your heart and
mine without hesitation," said Mrs. Almayer. "When the girl is gone he
will be like the devil unchained. Then you and I had better beware."

"I am an old man and fear not death," answered Babalatchi, with a
mendacious assumption of indifference. "But what will you do?"

"I am an old woman, and wish to live," retorted Mrs. Almayer. "She is my
daughter also. I shall seek safety at the feet of our Rajah, speaking in
the name of the past when we both were young, and he--"

Babalatchi raised his hand.

"Enough. You shall be protected," he said soothingly.

Again the sound of Almayer's voice was heard, and again interrupting
their talk, they listened to the confused but loud utterance coming in
bursts of unequal strength, with unexpected pauses and noisy repetitions
that made some words and sentences fall clear and distinct on their ears
out of the meaningless jumble of excited shoutings emphasised by the
thumping of Almayer's fist upon the table. On the short intervals of
silence, the high complaining note of tumblers, standing close together
and vibrating to the shock, lingered, growing fainter, till it leapt up
again into tumultuous ringing, when a new idea started a new rush of
words and brought down the heavy hand again. At last the quarrelsome
shouting ceased, and the thin plaint of disturbed glass died away into
reluctant quietude.

Babalatchi and Mrs. Almayer had listened curiously, their bodies bent and
their ears turned towards the passage. At every louder shout they nodded
at each other with a ridiculous affectation of scandalised propriety, and
they remained in the same attitude for some time after the noise had
ceased.

"This is the devil of gin," whispered Mrs. Almayer. "Yes; he talks like
that sometimes when there is nobody to he