ds, seems
to hesitate, before it flows gently through twenty outlets; over a maze
of mudflats, sandbanks and reefs, into the expectant sea. He had never
attempted the entrance, however, because men of his race, although brave
and adventurous travellers, lack the true seamanlike instincts, and he
was afraid of getting wrecked. He could not bear the idea of the Rajah
Laut being able to boast that Abdulla bin Selim, like other and lesser
men, had also come to grief when trying to wrest his secret from him.
Meantime he returned encouraging answers to his unknown friends in
Sambir, and waited for his opportunity in the calm certitude of ultimate
triumph.

Such was the man whom Lakamba and Babalatchi expected to see for the
first time on the night of Willems' return to Aissa. Babalatchi, who had
been tormented for three days by the fear of having over-reached
himself in his little plot, now, feeling sure of his white man, felt
lighthearted and happy as he superintended the preparations in the
courtyard for Abdulla's reception. Half-way between Lakamba's house and
the river a pile of dry wood was made ready for the torch that would
set fire to it at the moment of Abdulla's landing. Between this and
the house again there was, ranged in a semicircle, a set of low
bamboo frames, and on those were piled all the carpets and cushions of
Lakamba's household. It had been decided that the reception was to take
place in the open air, and that it should be made impressive by the
great number of Lakamba's retainers, who, clad in clean white, with
their red sarongs gathered round their waists, chopper at side and lance
in hand, were moving about the compound or, gathering into small knots,
discussed eagerly the coming ceremony.

Two little fires burned brightly on the water's edge on each side of
the landing place. A small heap of damar-gum torches lay by each, and
between them Babalatchi strolled backwards and forwards, stopping often
with his face to the river and his head on one side, listening to the
sounds that came from the darkness over the water. There was no moon and
the night was very clear overhead, but, after the afternoon breeze had
expired in fitful puffs, the vapours hung thickening over the glancing
surface of the Pantai and clung to the shore, hiding from view the
middle of the stream.

A cry in the mist--then another--and, before Babalatchi could answer,
two little canoes dashed up to the landing-place, and two of the