u conducted his friends to the presence of his kinsman the chief man
of the town, and, having told his story, received a promise that the
pirate should be taken up when he arrived and put in prison. Meanwhile
he appointed to the party a house in which to spend the night.

Baderoon boldly accompanied the crowd that followed them, saw the house,
glanced between the heads of curious natives who watched the travellers
while eating their supper, and noted the exact spot on the floor of the
building where Van der Kemp threw down his mat and blanket, thus taking
possession of his intended couch! He did not, however, see that the
hermit afterwards shifted his position a little, and that Babu,
desiring to be near his friend, lay down on the vacated spot.

In the darkest hour of the night, when even the owls and bats had sought
repose, the pirate captain stole out of the brake in which he had
concealed himself, and, kriss in hand, glided under the house in which
his enemy lay.

Native houses, as we have elsewhere explained, are usually built on
posts, so that there is an open space under the floors, which is
available as a store or lumber-room. It is also unfortunately available
for evil purposes. The bamboo flooring is not laid so closely but that
sounds inside may be heard distinctly by any one listening below. Voices
were heard by the pirate as he approached, which arrested his steps.
They were those of Van der Kemp and Nigel engaged in conversation.
Baderoon knew that as long as his enemy was awake and conversing he
might probably be sitting up and not in a position suitable to his fell
purpose. He crouched therefore among some lumber like a tiger abiding
its time.

"Why are you so anxious not to meet this man?" asked Nigel, who was
resolved, if possible without giving offence, to be at the bottom of the
mystery.

For some moments the hermit was silent, then in a constrained voice he
said slowly--

"Because revenge burns fiercely in my breast. I have striven to crush
it, but cannot. I fear to meet him lest I kill him."

"Has he, then, done you such foul wrong?"

"Ay, he has cruelly--fiendishly--done the worst he could. He robbed me
of my only child--but I may not talk of it. The unholy desire for
vengeance burns more fiercely when I talk. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the
Lord.' My constant prayer is that I may not meet him. Good-night."

As the hermit thus put an abrupt end to the conversation he lay down and
drew his