rows came close, his eyes became animated, and a big vein stood out
on his forehead, accentuating a lowering frown. When speaking his last
words Babalatchi faltered, then stopped, confused, before the steady
gaze of the old seaman.

Lingard rose. His face cleared, and he looked down at the anxious
Babalatchi with sudden benevolence.

"So! That's what you were after," he said, laying a heavy hand on
Babalatchi's yielding shoulder. "You thought I came here to murder him.
Hey? Speak! You faithful dog of an Arab trader!"

"And what else, Tuan?" shrieked Babalatchi, exasperated into sincerity.
"What else, Tuan! Remember what he has done; he poisoned our ears with
his talk about you. You are a man. If you did not come to kill, Tuan,
then either I am a fool or . . ."

He paused, struck his naked breast with his open palm, and finished in a
discouraged whisper--"or, Tuan, you are."

Lingard looked down at him with scornful serenity. After his long and
painful gropings amongst the obscure abominations of Willems' conduct,
the logical if tortuous evolutions of Babalatchi's diplomatic mind
were to him welcome as daylight. There was something at last he could
understand--the clear effect of a simple cause. He felt indulgent
towards the disappointed sage.

"So you are angry with your friend, O one-eyed one!" he said slowly,
nodding his fierce countenance close to Babalatchi's discomfited face.
"It seems to me that you must have had much to do with what happened in
Sambir lately. Hey? You son of a burnt father."

"May I perish under your hand, O Rajah of the sea, if my words are not
true!" said Babalatchi, with reckless excitement. "You are here in the
midst of your enemies. He the greatest. Abdulla would do nothing without
him, and I could do nothing without Abdulla. Strike me--so that you
strike all!"

"Who are you," exclaimed Lingard contemptuously--"who are you to
dare call yourself my enemy! Dirt! Nothing! Go out first," he went on
severely. "Lakas! quick. March out!"

He pushed Babalatchi through the doorway and followed him down the short
ladder into the courtyard. The boatmen squatting over the fire turned
their slow eyes with apparent difficulty towards the two men; then,
unconcerned, huddled close together again, stretching forlornly their
hands over the embers. The women stopped in their work and with uplifted
pestles flashed quick and curious glances from the gloom under the
house.

"Is that the way?" asked L