dy and one sleeve of his
coat torn up to the elbow.

All this Hassim saw and then retreated undetected to that part of
the shore where Immada waited for him, keeping the canoe afloat. The
Illanuns, trusting to the sea, kept very bad watch on their prisoners,
and had he been able to speak with them Hassim thought an escape could
have been effected. But they could not have understood his signs and
still less his words. He consulted with his sister. Immada murmured
sadly; at their feet the ripple broke with a mournful sound no louder
than their voices.

Hassim's loyalty was unshaken, but now it led him on not in the bright
light of hopes but in the deepened shadow of doubt. He wanted to obtain
information for his friend who was so powerful and who perhaps would
know how to be constant. When followed by Immada he approached the camp
again--this time openly--their appearance did not excite much surprise.
It was well known to the Chiefs of the Illanuns that the Rajah for whom
they were to fight--if God so willed--was upon the shoals looking out
for the coming of the white man who had much wealth and a store of
weapons and who was his servant. Daman, who alone understood the exact
relation, welcomed them with impenetrable gravity. Hassim took his
seat on the carpet at his right hand. A consultation was being held
half-aloud in short and apparently careless sentences, with long
intervals of silence between. Immada, nestling close to her brother,
leaned one arm on his shoulder and listened with serious attention and
with outward calm as became a princess of Wajo accustomed to consort
with warriors and statesmen in moments of danger and in the hours of
deliberation. Her heart was beating rapidly, and facing her the silent
white men stared at these two known faces, as if across a gulf.
Four Illanun chiefs sat in a row. Their ample cloaks fell from their
shoulders, and lay behind them on the sand in which their four long
lances were planted upright, each supporting a small oblong shield of
wood, carved on the edges and stained a dull purple. Daman stretched out
his arm and pointed at the prisoners. The faces of the white men were
very quiet. Daman looked at them mutely and ardently, as if consumed by
an unspeakable longing.

The Koran, in a silk cover, hung on his breast by a crimson cord. It
rested over his heart and, just below, the plain buffalo-horn handle of
a kris, stuck into the twist of his sarong, protruded ready to his