abalatchi did not mind in the least the putting off of his own
occupation of the house of honour, because it had many advantages for
the quiet working out of his plans. It had a certain seclusion, having
an enclosure of its own, and that enclosure communicated also with
Lakamba's private courtyard at the back of his residence--a place set
apart for the female household of the chief. The only communication with
the river was through the great front courtyard always full of armed men
and watchful eyes. Behind the whole group of buildings there stretched
the level ground of rice-clearings, which in their turn were closed in
by the wall of untouched forests with undergrowth so thick and tangled
that nothing but a bullet--and that fired at pretty close range--could
penetrate any distance there.

Babalatchi slipped quietly through the little gate and, closing it, tied
up carefully the rattan fastenings. Before the house there was a square
space of ground, beaten hard into the level smoothness of asphalte. A
big buttressed tree, a giant left there on purpose during the process
of clearing the land, roofed in the clear space with a high canopy of
gnarled boughs and thick, sombre leaves. To the right--and some small
distance away from the large house--a little hut of reeds, covered with
mats, had been put up for the special convenience of Omar, who, being
blind and infirm, had some difficulty in ascending the steep plankway
that led to the more substantial dwelling, which was built on low posts
and had an uncovered verandah. Close by the trunk of the tree, and
facing the doorway of the hut, the household fire glowed in a small
handful of embers in the midst of a large circle of white ashes. An
old woman--some humble relation of one of Lakamba's wives, who had been
ordered to attend on Aissa--was squatting over the fire and lifted up
her bleared eyes to gaze at Babalatchi in an uninterested manner, as he
advanced rapidly across the courtyard.

Babalatchi took in the courtyard with a keen glance of his solitary eye,
and without looking down at the old woman muttered a question. Silently,
the woman stretched a tremulous and emaciated arm towards the hut.
Babalatchi made a few steps towards the doorway, but stopped outside in
the sunlight.

"O! Tuan Omar, Omar besar! It is I--Babalatchi!"

Within the hut there was a feeble groan, a fit of coughing and an
indistinct murmur in the broken tones of a vague plaint. Encouraged
evident