st
and speak about the dead? There is one man--living--great--not far
off . . .

Such was Babalatchi's line of policy laid before his ambitious
protector. Lakamba assented, his only objection being that it was
very slow work. In his extreme desire to grasp dollars and power, the
unintellectual exile was ready to throw himself into the arms of
any wandering cut-throat whose help could be secured, and Babalatchi
experienced great difficulty in restraining him from unconsidered
violence. It would not do to let it be seen that they had any hand in
introducing a new element into the social and political life of Sambir.
There was always a possibility of failure, and in that case Lingard's
vengeance would be swift and certain. No risk should be run. They must
wait.

Meantime he pervaded the settlement, squatting in the course of each
day by many household fires, testing the public temper and public
opinion--and always talking about his impending departure.

At night he would often take Lakamba's smallest canoe and depart
silently to pay mysterious visits to his old chief on the other side of
the river. Omar lived in odour of sanctity under the wing of Patalolo.
Between the bamboo fence, enclosing the houses of the Rajah, and the
wild forest, there was a banana plantation, and on its further edge
stood two little houses built on low piles under a few precious fruit
trees that grew on the banks of a clear brook, which, bubbling up behind
the house, ran in its short and rapid course down to the big river.
Along the brook a narrow path led through the dense second growth of
a neglected clearing to the banana plantation and to the houses in it
which the Rajah had given for residence to Omar. The Rajah was greatly
impressed by Omar's ostentatious piety, by his oracular wisdom, by
his many misfortunes, by the solemn fortitude with which he bore his
affliction. Often the old ruler of Sambir would visit informally the
blind Arab and listen gravely to his talk during the hot hours of an
afternoon. In the night, Babalatchi would call and interrupt Omar's
repose, unrebuked. Aissa, standing silently at the door of one of the
huts, could see the two old friends as they sat very still by the fire
in the middle of the beaten ground between the two houses, talking in
an indistinct murmur far into the night. She could not hear their words,
but she watched the two formless shadows curiously. Finally Babalatchi
would rise and, taking her fath