in a good-humoured
tone and without making the slightest movement.

Babalatchi smiled and hitched his seat a little further off.

For some time they sat in silence. Lingard, with his head tilted back,
looked downwards with lowered eyelids at Babalatchi, who was tracing
invisible lines with his finger on the mat between his feet. Outside,
they could hear Ali and the other boatmen chattering and laughing round
the fire they had lighted in the big and deserted courtyard.

"Well, what about that white man?" said Lingard, quietly.

It seemed as if Babalatchi had not heard the question. He went on
tracing elaborate patterns on the floor for a good while. Lingard waited
motionless. At last the Malay lifted his head.

"Hai! The white man. I know!" he murmured absently. "This white man or
another. . . . Tuan," he said aloud with unexpected animation, "you are
a man of the sea?"

"You know me. Why ask?" said Lingard, in a low tone.

"Yes. A man of the sea--even as we are. A true Orang Laut," went on
Babalatchi, thoughtfully, "not like the rest of the white men."

"I am like other whites, and do not wish to speak many words when the
truth is short. I came here to see the white man that helped Lakamba
against Patalolo, who is my friend. Show me where that white man lives;
I want him to hear my talk."

"Talk only? Tuan! Why hurry? The night is long and death is swift--as
you ought to know; you who have dealt it to so many of my people. Many
years ago I have faced you, arms in hand. Do you not remember? It was in
Carimata--far from here."

"I cannot remember every vagabond that came in my way," protested
Lingard, seriously.

"Hai! Hai!" continued Babalatchi, unmoved and dreamy. "Many years
ago. Then all this"--and looking up suddenly at Lingard's beard, he
flourished his fingers below his own beardless chin--"then all this was
like gold in sunlight, now it is like the foam of an angry sea."

"Maybe, maybe," said Lingard, patiently, paying the involuntary tribute
of a faint sigh to the memories of the past evoked by Babalatchi's
words.

He had been living with Malays so long and so close that the extreme
deliberation and deviousness of their mental proceedings had ceased to
irritate him much. To-night, perhaps, he was less prone to impatience
than ever. He was disposed, if not to listen to Babalatchi, then to let
him talk. It was evident to him that the man had something to say, and
he hoped that from the talk a ray o