murmur of the talk inside the hut, and he could
distinguish the voices but not the words. Abdulla spoke in deep tones,
and now and then this flowing monotone was interrupted by a querulous
exclamation, a weak moan or a plaintive quaver of the old man. Yes. It
was annoying not to be able to make out what they were saying, thought
Babalatchi, as he sat gazing fixedly at the unsteady glow of the fire.
But it will be right. All will be right. Abdulla inspired him with
confidence. He came up fully to his expectation. From the very first
moment when he set his eye on him he felt sure that this man--whom he
had known by reputation only--was very resolute. Perhaps too resolute.
Perhaps he would want to grasp too much later on. A shadow flitted over
Babalatchi's face. On the eve of the accomplishment of his desires he
felt the bitter taste of that drop of doubt which is mixed with the
sweetness of every success.

When, hearing footsteps on the verandah of the big house, he lifted his
head, the shadow had passed away and on his face there was an expression
of watchful alertness. Willems was coming down the plankway, into the
courtyard. The light within trickled through the cracks of the badly
joined walls of the house, and in the illuminated doorway appeared
the moving form of Aissa. She also passed into the night outside and
disappeared from view. Babalatchi wondered where she had got to, and for
the moment forgot the approach of Willems. The voice of the white man
speaking roughly above his head made him jump to his feet as if impelled
upwards by a powerful spring.

"Where's Abdulla?"

Babalatchi waved his hand towards the hut and stood listening intently.
The voices within had ceased, then recommenced again. He shot an oblique
glance at Willems, whose indistinct form towered above the glow of dying
embers.

"Make up this fire," said Willems, abruptly. "I want to see your face."

With obliging alacrity Babalatchi put some dry brushwood on the coals
from a handy pile, keeping all the time a watchful eye on Willems.
When he straightened himself up his hand wandered almost involuntarily
towards his left side to feel the handle of a kriss amongst the folds of
his sarong, but he tried to look unconcerned under the angry stare.

"You are in good health, please God?" he murmured.

"Yes!" answered Willems, with an unexpected loudness that caused
Babalatchi to start nervously. "Yes! . . . Health! . . . You . . ."

He made a lon