sued. Babalatchi, gazing intently,
saw Abdulla's lips move almost imperceptibly. Suddenly Willems seized
the Arab's passive hand and shook it. Babalatchi drew the long breath of
relieved suspense. The conference was over. All well, apparently.

He ventured now to approach the two men, who saw him and waited in
silence. Willems had retired within himself already, and wore a look of
grim indifference. Abdulla moved away a step or two. Babalatchi looked
at him inquisitively.

"I go now," said Abdulla, "and shall wait for you outside the river,
Tuan Willems, till the second sunset. You have only one word, I know."

"Only one word," repeated Willems.

Abdulla and Babalatchi walked together down the enclosure, leaving the
white man alone by the fire. The two Arabs who had come with Abdulla
preceded them and passed at once through the little gate into the light
and the murmur of voices of the principal courtyard, but Babalatchi and
Abdulla stopped on this side of it. Abdulla said--

"It is well. We have spoken of many things. He consents."

"When?" asked Babalatchi, eagerly.

"On the second day from this. I have promised every thing. I mean to
keep much."

"Your hand is always open, O Most Generous amongst Believers! You will
not forget your servant who called you here. Have I not spoken the
truth? She has made roast meat of his heart."

With a horizontal sweep of his arm Abdulla seemed to push away that last
statement, and said slowly, with much meaning--

"He must be perfectly safe; do you understand? Perfectly safe--as if he
was amongst his own people--till . . ."

"Till when?" whispered Babalatchi.

"Till I speak," said Abdulla. "As to Omar." He hesitated for a moment,
then went on very low: "He is very old."

"Hai-ya! Old and sick," murmured Babalatchi, with sudden melancholy.

"He wanted me to kill that white man. He begged me to have him killed at
once," said Abdulla, contemptuously, moving again towards the gate.

"He is impatient, like those who feel death near them," exclaimed
Babalatchi, apologetically.

"Omar shall dwell with me," went on Abdulla, "when . . . But no matter.
Remember! The white man must be safe."

"He lives in your shadow," answered Babalatchi, solemnly. "It is
enough!" He touched his forehead and fell back to let Abdulla go first.

And now they are back in the courtyard wherefrom, at their appearance,
listlessness vanishes, and all the faces become alert and interested
once mo