Complete Works

he shall guide your ship and lead in the fight — if fight there be,” went on Babalatchi. “If there is any killing — let him be the slayer. You should give him arms — a short gun that fires many times.”
    “Yes, by Allah!” assented Abdulla, with slow thoughtfulness.
    “And you will have to open your hand, O First amongst the generous!” continued Babalatchi. “You will have to satisfy the rapacity of a white man, and also of one who is not a man, and therefore greedy of ornaments.”
    “They shall be satisfied,” said Abdulla; “but . . .” He hesitated, looking down on the ground and stroking his beard, while Babalatchi waited, anxious, with parted lips. After a short time he spoke again jerkily in an indistinct whisper, so that Babalatchi had to turn his head to catch the words. “Yes. But Omar is the son of my father’s uncle . . . and all belonging to him are of the Faith . . . while that man is an unbeliever. It is most unseemly . . . very unseemly. He cannot live under my shadow. Not that dog. Penitence! I take refuge with my God,” he mumbled rapidly. “How can he live under my eyes with that woman, who is of the Faith? Scandal! O abomination!”
    He finished with a rush and drew a long breath, then added dubiously —
    “And when that man has done all we want, what is to be done with him?”
    They stood close together, meditative and silent, their eyes roaming idly over the courtyard. The big bonfire burned brightly, and a wavering splash of light lay on the dark earth at their feet, while the lazy smoke wreathed itself slowly in gleaming coils amongst the black boughs of the trees. They could see Lakamba, who had returned to his place, sitting hunched up spiritlessly on the cushions, and Sahamin, who had got on his feet again and appeared to be talking to him with dignified animation. Men in twos or threes came out of the shadows into the light, strolling slowly, and passed again into the shadows, their faces turned to each other, their arms moving in restrained gestures. Bahassoen, his head proudly thrown back, his ornaments, embroideries, and sword-hilt flashing in the light, circled steadily round the fire like a planet round the sun. A cool whiff of damp air came from the darkness of the riverside; it made Abdulla and Babalatchi shiver, and woke them up from their abstraction.
    “Open the gate and go first,” said Abdulla; “there is no danger?”
    “On my life, no!” answered Babalatchi, lifting the rattan ring. “He is all peace and content, like a thirsty man who has drunk water after many days.”
    He swung the gate wide, made a few paces into the gloom of the enclosure, and retraced his steps suddenly.
    “He may be made useful in many ways,” he whispered to Abdulla, who had stopped short, seeing him come back.
    “O Sin! O Temptation!” sighed out Abdulla, faintly. “Our refuge is with the Most High. Can I feed this infidel for ever and for ever?” he added, impatiently.
    “No,” breathed out Babalatchi. “No! Not for ever. Only while he serves your designs, O Dispenser of Allah’s gifts! When the time comes — and your order . . .”
    He sidled close to Abdulla, and brushed with a delicate touch the hand that hung down listlessly, holding the prayer-beads.
    “I am your slave and your offering,” he murmured, in a distinct and polite tone, into Abdulla’s ear. “When your wisdom speaks, there may be found a little poison that will not lie. Who knows?”
     

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    Babalatchi saw Abdulla pass through the low and narrow entrance into the darkness of Omar’s hut; heard them exchange the usual greetings and the distinguished visitor’s grave voice asking: “There is no misfortune — please God — but the sight?” and then, becoming aware of the disapproving looks of the two Arabs who had accompanied Abdulla, he followed their example and fell back out of earshot. He did it unwillingly, although he did not ignore that what was going to happen in there was now absolutely beyond his control. He roamed irresolutely about for awhile, and at last wandered with careless steps towards the fire, which had been moved, from under the tree, close to the hut and a little to windward of its entrance. He squatted on his heels and began playing pensively with live embers, as was his habit when engrossed in thought, withdrawing his hand sharply and shaking it above his head when he burnt his fingers in a fit of deeper abstraction. Sitting there he could