Complete Works

times. Bring your goods quickly, and I shall receive them in payment of what you owe me from last year.’ And he laughed, and struck me on the shoulder with his open hand. May Jehannum be his lot!”
    “We will fight him,” said young Bahassoen, crisply. “We shall fight if there is help and a leader. Tuan Abdulla, will you come among us?”
    Abdulla did not answer at once. His lips moved in an inaudible whisper and the beads passed through his fingers with a dry click. All waited in respectful silence. “I shall come if my ship can enter this river,” said Abdulla at last, in a solemn tone.
    “It can, Tuan,” exclaimed Babalatchi. “There is a white man here who . . .”
    “I want to see Omar el Badavi and that white man you wrote about,” interrupted Abdulla.
    Babalatchi got on his feet quickly, and there was a general move.
    The women on the verandah hurried indoors, and from the crowd that had kept discreetly in distant parts of the courtyard a couple of men ran with armfuls of dry fuel, which they cast upon the fire. One of them, at a sign from Babalatchi, approached and, after getting his orders, went towards the little gate and entered Omar’s enclosure. While waiting for his return, Lakamba, Abdulla, and Babalatchi talked together in low tones. Sahamin sat by himself chewing betel-nut sleepily with a slight and indolent motion of his heavy jaw. Bahassoen, his hand on the hilt of his short sword, strutted backwards and forwards in the full light of the fire, looking very warlike and reckless; the envy and admiration of Lakamba’s retainers, who stood in groups or flitted about noiselessly in the shadows of the courtyard.
    The messenger who had been sent to Omar came back and stood at a distance, waiting till somebody noticed him. Babalatchi beckoned him close.
    “What are his words?” asked Babalatchi.
    “He says that Syed Abdulla is welcome now,” answered the man.
    Lakamba was speaking low to Abdulla, who listened to him with deep interest.
    “. . . We could have eighty men if there was need,” he was saying — ”eighty men in fourteen canoes. The only thing we want is gunpowder . . .”
    “Hai! there will be no fighting,” broke in Babalatchi. “The fear of your name will be enough and the terror of your coming.”
    “There may be powder too,” muttered Abdulla with great nonchalance, “if only the ship enters the river safely.”
    “If the heart is stout the ship will be safe,” said Babalatchi. “We will go now and see Omar el Badavi and the white man I have here.”
    Lakamba’s dull eyes became animated suddenly.
    “Take care, Tuan Abdulla,” he said, “take care. The behaviour of that unclean white madman is furious in the extreme. He offered to strike . . .”
    “On my head, you are safe, O Giver of alms!” interrupted Babalatchi.
    Abdulla looked from one to the other, and the faintest flicker of a passing smile disturbed for a moment his grave composure. He turned to Babalatchi, and said with decision —
    “Let us go.”
    “This way, O Uplifter of our hearts!” rattled on Babalatchi, with fussy deference. “Only a very few paces and you shall behold Omar the brave, and a white man of great strength and cunning. This way.”
    He made a sign for Lakamba to remain behind, and with respectful touches on the elbow steered Abdulla towards the gate at the upper end of the court-yard. As they walked on slowly, followed by the two Arabs, he kept on talking in a rapid undertone to the great man, who never looked at him once, although appearing to listen with flattering attention. When near the gate Babalatchi moved forward and stopped, facing Abdulla, with his hand on the fastenings.
    “You shall see them both,” he said. “All my words about them are true. When I saw him enslaved by the one of whom I spoke, I knew he would be soft in my hand like the mud of the river. At first he answered my talk with bad words of his own language, after the manner of white men. Afterwards, when listening to the voice he loved, he hesitated. He hesitated for many days — too many. I, knowing him well, made Omar withdraw here with his . . . household. Then this red-faced man raged for three days like a black panther that is hungry. And this evening, this very evening, he came. I have him here. He is in the grasp of one with a merciless heart. I have him here,” ended Babalatchi, exultingly tapping the upright of the gate with his hand.
    “That is good,” murmured Abdulla.
    “And