Complete Works

disappeared.  Dain pushed Babalatchi aside and ran down to the water-gate followed by his shivering boatmen.
    Babalatchi backed slowly in and closed the door, then turned round and looked silently upon Lakamba.  The Rajah sat still, glaring stonily upon the table, and Babalatchi gazed curiously at the perplexed mood of the man he had served so many years through good and evil fortune.  No doubt the one-eyed statesman felt within his savage and much sophisticated breast the unwonted feelings of sympathy with, and perhaps even pity for, the man he called his master.  From the safe position of a confidential adviser, he could, in the dim vista of past years, see himself — a casual cut-throat — finding shelter under that man’s roof in the modest rice-clearing of early beginnings.  Then came a long period of unbroken success, of wise counsels, and deep plottings resolutely carried out by the fearless Lakamba, till the whole east coast from Poulo Laut to Tanjong Batu listened to Babalatchi’s wisdom speaking through the mouth of the ruler of Sambir.  In those long years how many dangers escaped, how many enemies bravely faced, how many white men successfully circumvented!  And now he looked upon the result of so many years of patient toil: the fearless Lakamba cowed by the shadow of an impending trouble.  The ruler was growing old, and Babalatchi, aware of an uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach, put both his hands there with a suddenly vivid and sad perception of the fact that he himself was growing old too; that the time of reckless daring was past for both of them, and that they had to seek refuge in prudent cunning.  They wanted peace; they were disposed to reform; they were ready even to retrench, so as to have the wherewithal to bribe the evil days away, if bribed away they could be.  Babalatchi sighed for the second time that night as he squatted again at his master’s feet and tendered him his betel-nut box in mute sympathy.  And they sat there in close yet silent communion of betel-nut chewers, moving their jaws slowly, expectorating decorously into the wide-mouthed brass vessel they passed to one another, and listening to the awful din of the battling elements outside.
    “There is a very great flood,” remarked Babalatchi, sadly.
    “Yes,” said Lakamba.  “Did Dain go?”
    “He went, Tuan.  He ran down to the river like a man possessed of the Sheitan himself.”
    There was another long pause.
    “He may get drowned,” suggested Lakamba at last, with some show of interest.
    “The floating logs are many,” answered Babalatchi, “but he is a good swimmer,” he added languidly.
    “He ought to live,” said Lakamba; “he knows where the treasure is.”
    Babalatchi assented with an ill-humoured grunt.  His want of success in penetrating the white man’s secret as to the locality where the gold was to be found was a sore point with the statesman of Sambir, as the only conspicuous failure in an otherwise brilliant career.
    A great peace had now succeeded the turmoil of the storm.  Only the little belated clouds, which hurried past overhead to catch up the main body flashing silently in the distance, sent down short showers that pattered softly with a soothing hiss over the palm-leaf roof.
    Lakamba roused himself from his apathy with an appearance of having grasped the situation at last.
    “Babalatchi,” he called briskly, giving him a slight kick.
    “Ada Tuan!  I am listening.”
    “If the Orang Blanda come here, Babalatchi, and take Almayer to Batavia to punish him for smuggling gunpowder, what will he do, you think?”
    “I do not know, Tuan.”
    “You are a fool,” commented Lakamba, exultingly.  “He will tell them where the treasure is, so as to find mercy.  He will.”
    Babalatchi looked up at his master and nodded his head with by no means a joyful surprise.  He had not thought of this; there was a new complication.
    “Almayer must die,” said Lakamba, decisively, “to make our secret safe.  He must die quietly, Babalatchi.  You must do it.”
    Babalatchi assented, and rose wearily to his feet.  “To-morrow?” he asked.
    “Yes; before the Dutch come.  He drinks much coffee,” answered Lakamba, with seeming irrelevancy.
    Babalatchi stretched himself yawning, but Lakamba, in the flattering consciousness of a knotty problem solved by his own unaided intellectual efforts, grew suddenly very wakeful.
    “Babalatchi,” he said to the exhausted statesman,