the splash of paddles, then a sudden cry--

"I see a light. I see it! Now I know where to land, Tuan."

There was more splashing as the canoe was paddled sharply round and came
back up-stream close to the bank.

"Call out," said very near a deep voice, which Babalatchi felt sure must
belong to a white man. "Call out--and somebody may come with a torch. I
can't see anything."

The loud hail that succeeded these words was emitted nearly under the
silent listener's nose. Babalatchi, to preserve appearances, ran with
long but noiseless strides halfway up the courtyard, and only then
shouted in answer and kept on shouting as he walked slowly back again
towards the river bank. He saw there an indistinct shape of a boat, not
quite alongside the landing-place.

"Who speaks on the river?" asked Babalatchi, throwing a tone of surprise
into his question.

"A white man," answered Lingard from the canoe. "Is there not one torch
in rich Lakamba's campong to light a guest on his landing?"

"There are no torches and no men. I am alone here," said Babalatchi,
with some hesitation.

"Alone!" exclaimed Lingard. "Who are you?"

"Only a servant of Lakamba. But land, Tuan Putih, and see my face. Here
is my hand. No! Here! . . . By your mercy. . . . Ada! . . . Now you are
safe."

"And you are alone here?" said Lingard, moving with precaution a few
steps into the courtyard. "How dark it is," he muttered to himself--"one
would think the world had been painted black."

"Yes. Alone. What more did you say, Tuan? I did not understand your
talk."

"It is nothing. I expected to find here . . . But where are they all?"

"What matters where they are?" said Babalatchi, gloomily. "Have you come
to see my people? The last departed on a long journey--and I am alone.
Tomorrow I go too."

"I came to see a white man," said Lingard, walking on slowly. "He is not
gone, is he?"

"No!" answered Babalatchi, at his elbow. "A man with a red skin and hard
eyes," he went on, musingly, "whose hand is strong, and whose heart is
foolish and weak. A white man indeed . . . But still a man."

They were now at the foot of the short ladder which led to the
split-bamboo platform surrounding Babalatchi's habitation. The faint
light from the doorway fell down upon the two men's faces as they stood
looking at each other curiously.

"Is he there?" asked Lingard, in a low voice, with a wave of his hand
upwards.

Babalatchi, staring hard at his long-expected