reason into the hands of some woman.
The fate of the Believers is written by the hand of the Mighty One,
but they who worship many gods are thrown into the world with smooth
foreheads, for any woman's hand to mark their destruction there. Let one
white man destroy another. The will of the Most High is that they should
be fools. They know how to keep faith with their enemies, but towards
each other they know only deception. Hai! I have seen! I have seen!"

He stretched himself full length before the fire, and closed his eye in
real or simulated sleep. Lakamba, not quite convinced, sat for a long
time with his gaze riveted on the dull embers. As the night advanced,
a slight white mist rose from the river, and the declining moon, bowed
over the tops of the forest, seemed to seek the repose of the earth,
like a wayward and wandering lover who returns at last to lay his tired
and silent head on his beloved's breast.

CHAPTER SIX

"Lend me your gun, Almayer," said Willems, across the table on which a
smoky lamp shone redly above the disorder of a finished meal. "I have a
mind to go and look for a deer when the moon rises to-night."

Almayer, sitting sidewise to the table, his elbow pushed amongst the
dirty plates, his chin on his breast and his legs stretched stiffly out,
kept his eyes steadily on the toes of his grass slippers and laughed
abruptly.

"You might say yes or no instead of making that unpleasant noise,"
remarked Willems, with calm irritation.

"If I believed one word of what you say, I would," answered Almayer
without changing his attitude and speaking slowly, with pauses, as if
dropping his words on the floor. "As it is--what's the use? You know
where the gun is; you may take it or leave it. Gun. Deer. Bosh! Hunt
deer! Pah! It's a . . . gazelle you are after, my honoured guest. You
want gold anklets and silk sarongs for that game--my mighty hunter. And
you won't get those for the asking, I promise you. All day amongst the
natives. A fine help you are to me."

"You shouldn't drink so much, Almayer," said Willems, disguising his
fury under an affected drawl. "You have no head. Never had, as far as I
can remember, in the old days in Macassar. You drink too much."

"I drink my own," retorted Almayer, lifting his head quickly and darting
an angry glance at Willems.

Those two specimens of the superior race glared at each other savagely
for a minute, then turned away their heads at the same moment as