re. Lakamba approaches his guest, but looks at Babalatchi, who
reassures him by a confident nod. Lakamba clumsily attempts a smile,
and looking, with natural and ineradicable sulkiness, from under his
eyebrows at the man whom he wants to honour, asks whether he would
condescend to visit the place of sitting down and take food. Or perhaps
he would prefer to give himself up to repose? The house is his, and what
is in it, and those many men that stand afar watching the interview are
his. Syed Abdulla presses his host's hand to his breast, and informs him
in a confidential murmur that his habits are ascetic and his temperament
inclines to melancholy. No rest; no food; no use whatever for those
many men who are his. Syed Abdulla is impatient to be gone. Lakamba is
sorrowful but polite, in his hesitating, gloomy way. Tuan Abdulla must
have fresh boatmen, and many, to shorten the dark and fatiguing road.
Hai-ya! There! Boats!

By the riverside indistinct forms leap into a noisy and disorderly
activity. There are cries, orders, banter, abuse. Torches blaze sending
out much more smoke than light, and in their red glare Babalatchi comes
up to say that the boats are ready.

Through that lurid glare Syed Abdulla, in his long white gown, seems
to glide fantastically, like a dignified apparition attended by two
inferior shades, and stands for a moment at the landing-place to
take leave of his host and ally--whom he loves. Syed Abdulla says so
distinctly before embarking, and takes his seat in the middle of the
canoe under a small canopy of blue calico stretched on four sticks.
Before and behind Syed Abdulla, the men squatting by the gunwales hold
high the blades of their paddles in readiness for a dip, all together.
Ready? Not yet. Hold on all! Syed Abdulla speaks again, while Lakamba
and Babalatchi stand close on the bank to hear his words. His words are
encouraging. Before the sun rises for the second time they shall meet,
and Syed Abdulla's ship shall float on the waters of this river--at
last! Lakamba and Babalatchi have no doubt--if Allah wills. They are in
the hands of the Compassionate. No doubt. And so is Syed Abdulla, the
great trader who does not know what the word failure means; and so is
the white man--the smartest business man in the islands--who is lying
now by Omar's fire with his head on Aissa's lap, while Syed Abdulla
flies down the muddy river with current and paddles between the sombre
walls of the sleeping forest