and then the one-eyed puller of wires
became himself again, full of care and wisdom and far-reaching plans,
and a victim to the tormenting superstitions of his race. The night, no
matter how quiet, is never perfectly silent to attentive ears, and now
Babalatchi fancied he could detect in it other noises than those caused
by the ripples and eddies of the river. He turned his head sharply to
the right and to the left in succession, and then spun round quickly in
a startled and watchful manner, as if he had expected to see the blind
ghost of his departed leader wandering in the obscurity of the empty
courtyard behind his back. Nothing there. Yet he had heard a noise;
a strange noise! No doubt a ghostly voice of a complaining and angry
spirit. He listened. Not a sound. Reassured, Babalatchi made a few paces
towards his house, when a very human noise, that of hoarse coughing,
reached him from the river. He stopped, listened attentively, but now
without any sign of emotion, and moving briskly back to the waterside
stood expectant with parted lips, trying to pierce with his eye the
wavering curtain of mist that hung low over the water. He could see
nothing, yet some people in a canoe must have been very near, for he
heard words spoken in an ordinary tone.

"Do you think this is the place, Ali? I can see nothing."

"It must be near here, Tuan," answered another voice. "Shall we try the
bank?"

"No! . . . Let drift a little. If you go poking into the bank in the
dark you might stove the canoe on some log. We must be careful. . . .
Let drift! Let drift! . . . This does seem to be a clearing of
some sort. We may see a light by and by from some house or other. In
Lakamba's campong there are many houses? Hey?"

"A great number, Tuan . . . I do not see any light."

"Nor I," grumbled the first voice again, this time nearly abreast of the
silent Babalatchi who looked uneasily towards his own house, the doorway
of which glowed with the dim light of a torch burning within. The
house stood end on to the river, and its doorway faced down-stream, so
Babalatchi reasoned rapidly that the strangers on the river could not
see the light from the position their boat was in at the moment. He
could not make up his mind to call out to them, and while he hesitated
he heard the voices again, but now some way below the landing-place
where he stood.

"Nothing. This cannot be it. Let them give way, Ali! Dayong there!"

That order was followed by