An Outcast of the Islands by Joseph Conrad (page 2)

he was not politic enough to conceal his disappoint- ment. He declared himself to be a man from the east, from those parts where no white man ruled, and to be of an oppressed race, but of a princely family. And truly enough he had all the gifts of an exiled prince. He was discontented, ungrateful, turbulent; a man full of envy and ready for intrigue, with brave words and empty promises for ever on his lips. He was obstinate, but his will was made up of short impulses that never lasted long enough to carry him to the goal of his ambi- tion. Received coldly by the suspicious Patalolo, he persisted–permission or no permission–in clearing the ground on a good spot some fourteen miles down the river from Sambir, and built himself a house there, which he fortified by a high palisade. As he had many fol- lowers and seemed very reckless, the old Rajah did not

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 51

think it prudent at the time to interfere with him by force. Once settled, he began to intrigue. The quarrel of Patalolo with the Sultan of Koti was of his fomenting, but failed to produce the result he expected because the Sultan could not back him up effectively at such a great distance. Disappointed in that scheme, he promptly organized an outbreak of the Bugis settlers, and besieged the old Rajah in his stockade with much noisy valour and a fair chance of success; but Lingard then appeared on the scene with the armed brig, and the old seaman’s hairy forefinger, shaken menacingly in his face, quelled his martial ardour. No man cared to encounter the Rajah Laut, and Lakamba, with momentary resignation, subsided into a half-cultivator, half-trader, and nursed in his fortified house his wrath and his ambition, keeping it for use on a more pro- pitious occasion. Still faithful to his character of a prince-pretender, he would not recognize the con- stituted authorities, answering sulkily the Rajah’s messenger, who claimed the tribute for the cultivated fields, that the Rajah had better come and take it himself. By Lingard’s advice he was left alone, not- withstanding his rebellious mood; and for many days he lived undisturbed amongst his wives and retainers, cherishing that persistent and causeless hope of better times, the possession of which seems to be the universal privilege of exiled greatness.
But the passing days brought no change. The hope grew faint and the hot ambition burnt itself out, leaving only a feeble and expiring spark amongst a heap of dull and tepid ashes of indolent acquiescence with the decrees of Fate, till Babalatchi fanned it again into a bright flame. Babalatchi had blundered upon the river while in search of a safe refuge for his dis- reputable head. He was a vagabond of the seas, a

52 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

true Orang-Laut, living by rapine and plunder of coasts and ships in his prosperous days; earning his living by honest and irksome toil when the days of adversity were upon him. So, although at times leading the Sulu rovers, he had also served as Serang of country ships, and in that wise had visited the distant seas, beheld the glories of Bombay, the might of the Mascati Sultan; had even struggled in a pious throng for the privilege of touching with his lips the Sacred Stone of the Holy City. He gathered experience and wisdom in many lands, and after attaching himself to Omar el Badavi, he affected great piety (as became a pilgrim), although unable to read the inspired words of the Prophet. He was brave and bloodthirsty without any affection, and he hated the white men who interfered with the manly pursuits of throat-cutting, kidnapping, slave-dealing, and fire-raising, that were the only pos- sible occupation for a true man of the sea. He found favour in the eyes of his chief, the fearless Omar el Badavi, the leader of Brunei rovers, whom he followed with unquestioning loyalty through the long years of successful depredation. And when that long career of murder, robbery and violence received its first serious check at the hands of white men, he stood faith- fully by his chief, looked steadily at the bursting shells, was undismayed by the flames of the burning strong- hold, by the death of his companions, by the shrieks of their women, the wailing of their children; by the sud- den ruin and destruction of all that he deemed indis- pensable to a happy and glorious existence. The beaten ground between the houses was slippery with blood, and the dark mangroves of the muddy creeks were full of sighs of the dying men who were stricken down before they could see their enemy. They died helplessly, for into the tangled forest there was no escape, and their

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 53

swift praus, in which they had so often scoured the coast and the seas, now wedged together in the narrow creek, were burning fiercely. Babalatchi, with the clear perception of the coming end, devoted all his energies to saving if it was but only one of them. He succeeded in time. When the end came in the explosion of the stored powder-barrels, he was ready to look for his chief. He found him half dead and totally blinded, with nobody near him but his daughter Aissa:–the sons had fallen earlier in the day, as became men of their courage. Helped by the girl with the steadfast heart, Babalatchi carried Omar on board the light prau and succeeded in escaping, but with very few companions only. As they hauled their craft into the network of dark and silent creeks, they could hear the cheering of the crews of the man-of- war’s boats dashing to the attack of the rover’s village. Aissa, sitting on the high after-deck, her father’s blackened and bleeding head in her lap, looked up with fearless eyes at Babalatchi. “They shall find only smoke, blood and dead men, and women mad with fear there, but nothing else living,” she said, mournfully. Babalatchi, pressing with his right hand the deep gash on his shoulder, answered sadly: “They are very strong. When we fight with them we can only die. Yet,” he added, menacingly–“some of us still live! Some of us still live!”
For a short time he dreamed of vengeance, but his dream was dispelled by the cold reception of the Sultan of Sulu, with whom they sought refuge at first and who gave them only a contemptuous and grudging hospi- tality. While Omar, nursed by Aissa, was recovering from his wounds, Babalatchi attended industriously before the exalted Presence that had extended to them the hand of Protection. For all that, when Babalatchi

54 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

spoke into the Sultan’s ear certain proposals of a great and profitable raid, that was to sweep the islands from Ternate to Acheen, the Sultan was very angry. “I know you, you men from the west,” he exclaimed, angrily. “Your words are poison in a Ruler’s ears. Your talk is of fire and murder and booty–but on our heads falls the vengeance of the blood you drink. Begone!”
There was nothing to be done. Times were changed. So changed that, when a Spanish frigate appeared before the island and a demand was sent to the Sultan to deliver Omar and his companions, Babalatchi was not surprised to hear that they were going to be made the victims of political expediency. But from that sane appreciation of danger to tame submission was a very long step. And then began Omar’s second flight. It began arms in hand, for the little band had to fight in the night on the beach for the possession of the small canoes in which those that survived got away at last. The story of that escape lives in the hearts of brave men even to this day. They talk of Babalatchi and of the strong woman who carried her blind father through the surf under the fire of the warship from the north. The companions of that piratical and son-less AEneas are dead now, but their ghosts wander over the waters and the islands at night–after the manner of ghosts –and haunt the fires by which sit armed men, as is meet for the spirits of fearless warriors who died in battle. There they may hear the story of their own deeds, of their own courage, suffering and death, on the lips of living men. That story is told in many places. On the cool mats in breezy verandahs of Rajahs’ houses it is alluded to disdainfully by impassive statesmen, but amongst armed men that throng the courtyards it is a tale which stills the murmur of

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 55

voices and the tinkle of anklets; arrests the passage of the siri-vessel, and fixes the eyes in absorbed gaze. They talk of the fight, of the fearless woman, of the wise man; of long suffering on the thirsty sea in leaky canoes; of those who died. . . . Many died. A few survived. The chief, the woman, and another one who became great.
There was no hint of incipient greatness in Baba- latchi’s unostentatious arrival in Sambir. He came with Omar and Aissa in a small prau loaded with green cocoanuts, and claimed the ownership of both vessel and cargo. How it came to pass that Babalatchi, fleeing for his life in a small canoe, managed to end his hazardous journey in a vessel full of a valuable com- modity, is one of those secrets of the sea that baffle the most searching inquiry. In truth nobody inquired much. There were rumours of a missing trading prau belonging to Menado, but they were vague and re- mained mysterious. Babalatchi told a story which– it must be said in justice to Patalolo’s knowledge of the world–was not believed. When the Rajah ventured to state his doubts, Babalatchi asked him in tones of calm remonstrance whether he could reasonably suppose that two oldish men–who had only one eye amongst them–and a young woman were likely to gain posses- sion of anything whatever by violence? Charity was a virtue recommended by the Prophet. There were charitable people, and their hand was open to the de- serving. Patalolo wagged his aged head doubtingly, and Babalatchi withdrew with a shocked mien and put himself forthwith under Lakamba’s protection. The two men who completed the prau’s crew followed him into that magnate’s campong. The blind Omar, with Aissa, remained under the care of the Rajah, and the Rajah confiscated the cargo. The prau hauled up on

56 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

the mud-bank, at the junction of the two branches of the Pantai, rotted in the rain, warped in the sun, fell to pieces and gradually vanished into the smoke of house- hold fires of the settlement. Only a forgotten plank and a rib or two, sticking neglected in the shiny ooze for a long time, served to remind Babalatchi during many months that he was a stranger in the land. Otherwise, he felt perfectly at home in Lakamba’s establishment, where his peculiar position and influence were quickly recognized and soon submitted to even by the women. He had all a true vagabond’s plia- bility to circumstances and adaptiveness to momentary surroundings. In his readiness to learn from experi- ence that contempt for early principles so necessary to a true statesman, he equalled the most successful politicians of any age; and he had enough persuasiveness and firmness of purpose to acquire a complete mastery over Lakamba’s vacillating mind–where there was nothing stable but an all-pervading discontent. He kept the discontent alive, he rekindled the expiring ambition, he moderated the poor exile’s not unnatural impatience to attain a high and lucrative position. He –the man of violence–deprecated the use of force, for he had a clear comprehension of the difficult situa- tion. From the same cause, he–the hater of white men–would to some extent admit the eventual ex- pediency of Dutch protection. But nothing should be done in a hurry. Whatever his master Lakamba might think, there was no use in poisoning old Patalolo, he maintained. It could be done, of course; but what then? As long as Lingard’s influence was paramount– as long as Almayer, Lingard’s representative, was the only great trader of the settlement, it was not worth Lakamba’s while–even if it had been possible–to grasp the rule of the young state. Killing Almayer and Lin-

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 57

gard was so difficult and so risky that it might be dis- missed as impracticable. What was wanted was an alliance; somebody to set up against the white men’s influence–and somebody who, while favourable to La- kamba, would at the same time be a person of a good standing with the Dutch authorities. A rich and con- sidered trader was wanted. Such a person once firmly established in Sambir would help them to oust the old Rajah, to remove him from power or from life if there was no other way. Then it would be time to apply to the Orang Blanda for a flag; for a recognition of their meritorious services; for that protection which would make them safe for ever! The word of a rich and loyal trader would mean something with the Ruler down in Batavia. The first thing to do was to find such an ally and to induce him to settle in Sambir. A white trader would not do. A white man would not fall in with their ideas–would not be trustworthy. The man they wanted should be rich, unscrupulous, have many followers, and be a well-known personality in the islands. Such a man might be found amongst the Arab traders. Lingard’s jealousy, said Babalatchi, kept all the traders out of the river. Some were afraid, and some did not know how to get there; others ig- nored the very existence of Sambir; a good many did not think it worth their while to run the risk of Lin- gard’s enmity for the doubtful advantage of trade with a comparatively unknown settlement. The great majority were undesirable or untrustworthy. And Babalatchi mentioned regretfully the men he had known in his young days: wealthy, resolute, courageous, reckless, ready for any enterprise! But why lament the past and speak about the dead? There is one man –living–great–not far off . . .
Such was Babalatchi’s line of policy laid before his

58 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

ambitious protector. Lakamba assented, his only ob- jection being that it was very slow work. In his extreme desire to grasp dollars and power, the unintel- lectual exile was ready to throw himself into the arms of any wandering cut-throat whose help could be secured, and Babalatchi experienced great difficulty in restraining him from unconsidered violence. It would not do to let it be seen that they had any hand in introducing a new element into the social and political life of Sambir. There was always a possibility of failure, and in that case Lingard’s vengeance would be swift and certain. No risk should be run. They must wait.
Meantime he pervaded the settlement, squatting in the course of each day by many household fires, testing the public temper and public opinion–and always talking about his impending departure. At night he would often take Lakamba’s smallest canoe and depart silently to pay mysterious visits to his old chief on the other side of the river. Omar lived in odour of sanc- tity under the wing of Patalolo. Between the bamboo fence, enclosing the houses of the Rajah, and the wild forest, there was a banana plantation, and on its further edge stood two little houses built on low piles under a few precious fruit trees that grew on the banks of a clear brook, which, bubbling up behind the house, ran in its short and rapid course down to the big river. Along the brook a narrow path led through the dense second growth of a neglected clearing to the banana plantation and to the houses in it which the Rajah had given for residence to Omar. The Rajah was greatly impressed by Omar’s ostentatious piety, by his oracular wisdom, by his many misfortunes, by the solemn fortitude with which he bore his affliction. Often the old ruler of Sambir would visit informally the blind

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 59

Arab and listen gravely to his talk during the hot hours of an afternoon. In the night, Babalatchi would call and interrupt Omar’s repose, unrebuked. Aissa, stand- ing silently at the door of one of the huts, could see the two old friends as they sat very still by the fire in the middle of the beaten ground between the two houses, talking in an indistinct murmur far into the night. She could not hear their words, but she watched the two formless shadows curiously. Finally Babalatchi would rise and, taking her father by the wrist, would lead him back to the house, arrange his mats for him, and go out quietly. Instead of going away, Babalatchi, uncon- scious of Aissa’s eyes, often sat again by the fire, in a long and deep meditation. Aissa looked with respect on that wise and brave man–she was accustomed to see at her father’s side as long as she could remember –sitting alone and thoughtful in the silent night by the dying fire, his body motionless and his mind wan- dering in the land of memories, or–who knows?– perhaps groping for a road in the waste spaces of the uncertain future.
Babalatchi noted the arrival of Willems with alarm at this new accession to the white men’s strength. Afterwards he changed his opinion. He met Willems one night on the path leading to Omar’s house, and noticed later on, with only a moderate surprise, that the blind Arab did not seem to be aware of the new white man’s visits to the neighbourhood of his dwell- ing. Once, coming unexpectedly in the daytime, Babalatchi fancied he could see the gleam of a white jacket in the bushes on the other side of the brook. That day he watched Aissa pensively as she moved about preparing the evening rice; but after awhile he went hurriedly away before sunset, refusing Omar’s hospitable invitation, in the name of Allah, to share

60 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

their meal. That same evening he startled Lakamba by announcing that the time had come at last to make the first move in their long-deferred game. Lakamba asked excitedly for explanation. Babalatchi shook his head and pointed to the flitting shadows of moving women and to the vague forms of men sitting by the evening fires in the courtyard. Not a word would he speak here, he declared. But when the whole house- hold was reposing, Babalatchi and Lakamba passed silent amongst sleeping groups to the riverside, and, taking a canoe, paddled off stealthily on their way to the dilapidated guard-hut in the old rice-clearing. There they were safe from all eyes and ears, and could account, if need be, for their excursion by the wish to kill a deer, the spot being well known as the drinking-place of all kinds of game. In the seclu- sion of its quiet solitude Babalatchi explained his plan to the attentive Lakamba. His idea was to make use of Willems for the destruction of Lingard’s influence.
“I know the white men, Tuan,” he said, in con- clusion. “In many lands have I seen them; always the slaves of their desires, always ready to give up their strength and their 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,

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 61

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 irrita- tion.
“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 . . . ga- zelle 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.

62

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 63

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 if by previous arrangement, and both got up. Almayer kicked off his slippers and scrambled into his hammock, which hung between two wooden columns of the verandah so as to catch every rare breeze of the dry season, and Willems, after standing irresolutely by the table for a short time, walked without a word down the steps of the house and over the courtyard towards the little wooden jetty, where several small canoes and a couple of big white whale-boats were made fast, tugging at their short painters and bumping together in the swift current of the river. He jumped into the smallest canoe, balancing himself clumsily, slipped the rattan painter, and gave an unnecessary and violent shove, which nearly sent him headlong overboard. By the time he regained his balance the canoe had drifted some fifty yards down the river. He knelt in the bot- tom of his little craft and fought the current with long sweeps of the paddle. Almayer sat up in his hammock, grasping his feet and peering over the river with parted lips till he made out the shadowy form of man and canoe as they struggled past the jetty again.
“I thought you would go,” he shouted. “Won’t you take the gun? Hey?” he yelled, straining his voice. Then he fell back in his hammock and laughed to himself feebly till he fell asleep. On the river, Wil- lems, his eyes fixed intently ahead, swept his paddle right and left, unheeding the words that reached him faintly.
It was now three months since Lingard had landed Willems in Sambir and had departed hurriedly, leaving him in Almayer’s care. The two white men did not get on well together. Almayer, remembering the time

64 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

when they both served Hudig, and when the superior Willems treated him with offensive condescension, felt a great dislike towards his guest. He was also jealous of Lingard’s favour. Almayer had married a Malay girl whom the old seaman had adopted in one of his accesses of unreasoning benevolence, and as the marriage was not a happy one from a domestic point of view, he looked to Lingard’s fortune for compensation in his matrimonial unhappiness. The appearance of that man, who seemed to have a claim of some sort upon Lingard, filled him with considerable uneasiness, the more so because the old seaman did not choose to acquaint the husband of his adopted daughter with Willems’ history, or to confide to him his intentions as to that individual’s future fate. Suspicious from the first, Almayer dis- couraged Willems’ attempts to help him in his trading, and then when Willems drew back, he made, with characteristic perverseness, a grievance of his uncon- cern. From cold civility in their relations, the two men drifted into silent hostility, then into outspoken enmity, and both wished ardently for Lingard’s return and the end of a situation that grew more intolerable from day to day. The time dragged slowly. Willems watched the succeeding sunrises wondering dismally whether before the evening some change would occur in the deadly dullness of his life. He missed the com- mercial activity of that existence which seemed to him far off, irreparably lost, buried out of sight under the ruins of his past success–now gone from him beyond the possibility of redemption. He mooned disconso- lately about Almayer’s courtyard, watching from afar, with uninterested eyes, the up-country canoes dis- charging guttah or rattans, and loading rice or European goods on the little wharf of Lingard & Co. Big as was the extent of ground owned by Almayer, Willems yet felt

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 65

that there was not enough room for him inside those neat fences. The man who, during long years, became accustomed to think of himself as indispensable to others, felt a bitter and savage rage at the cruel con- sciousness of his superfluity, of his uselessness; at the cold hostility visible in every look of the only white man in this barbarous corner of the world. He gnashed his teeth when he thought of the wasted days, of the life thrown away in the unwilling company of that peevish and suspicious fool. He heard the reproach of his idle- ness in the murmurs of the river, in the unceasing whis- per of the great forests. Round him everything stirred, moved, swept by in a rush; the earth under his feet and the heavens above his head. The very savages around him strove, struggled, fought, worked–if only to prolong a miserable existence; but they lived, they lived! And it was only himself that seemed to be left outside the scheme of creation in a hopeless immobility filled with tormenting anger and with ever-stinging regret.
He took to wandering about the settlement. The afterwards flourishing Sambir was born in a swamp and passed its youth in malodorous mud. The houses crowded the bank, and, as if to get away from the unhealthy shore, stepped boldly into the river, shoot- ing over it in a close row of bamboo platforms elevated on high piles, amongst which the current below spoke in a soft and unceasing plaint of murmuring eddies. There was only one path in the whole town and it ran at the back of the houses along the succession of blackened circular patches that marked the place of the household fires. On the other side the virgin forest bordered the path, coming close to it, as if to provoke impudently any passer-by to the solution of the gloomy problem of its depths. Nobody would

66 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

accept the deceptive challenge. There were only a few feeble attempts at a clearing here and there, but the ground was low and the river, retiring after its yearly floods, left on each a gradually diminishing mudhole, where the imported buffaloes of the Bugis settlers wallowed happily during the heat of the day. When Willems walked on the path, the indolent men stretched on the shady side of the houses looked at him with calm curiosity, the women busy round the cooking fires would send after him wondering and timid glances, while the children would only look once, and then run away yelling with fright at the horrible appear- ance of the man with a red and white face. These manifestations of childish disgust and fear stung Wil- lems with a sense of absurd humiliation; he sought in his walks the comparative solitude of the rudimentary clearings, but the very buffaloes snorted with alarm at his sight, scrambled lumberingly out of the cool mud and stared wildly in a compact herd at him as he tried to slink unperceived along the edge of the forest. One day, at some unguarded and sudden movement of his, the whole herd stampeded down the path, scattered the fires, sent the women flying with shrill cries, and left behind a track of smashed pots, trampled rice, over- turned children, and a crowd of angry men brandishing sticks in loud-voiced pursuit. The innocent cause of that disturbance ran shamefacedly the gauntlet of black looks and unfriendly remarks, and hastily sought refuge in Almayer’s campong. After that he left the settlement alone.
Later, when the enforced confinement grew irksome, Willems took one of Almayer’s many canoes and crossed the main branch of the Pantai in search of some soli- tary spot where he could hide his discouragement and his weariness. He skirted in his little craft the wall of

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 67

tangled verdure, keeping in the dead water close to the bank where the spreading nipa palms nodded their broad leaves over his head as if in contemptuous pity of the wandering outcast. Here and there he could see the beginnings of chopped-out pathways, and, with the fixed idea of getting out of sight of the busy river, he would land and follow the narrow and winding path, only to find that it led nowhere, ending abruptly in the discouragement of thorny thickets. He would go back slowly, with a bitter sense of unreasonable disappoint- ment and sadness; oppressed by the hot smell of earth, dampness, and decay in that forest which seemed to push him mercilessly back into the glittering sunshine of the river. And he would recommence paddling with tired arms to seek another opening, to find another deception.
As he paddled up to the point where the Rajah’s stockade came down to the river, the nipas were left behind rattling their leaves over the brown water, and the big trees would appear on the bank, tall, strong, indifferent in the immense solidity of their life, which endures for ages, to that short and fleeting life in the heart of the man who crept painfully amongst their shadows in search of a refuge from the unceasing reproach of his thoughts. Amongst their smooth trunks a clear brook meandered for a time in twining lacets before it made up its mind to take a leap into the hurry- ing river, over the edge of the steep bank. There was also a pathway there and it seemed frequented. Wil- lems landed, and following the capricious promise of the track soon found himself in a comparatively clear space, where the confused tracery of sunlight fell through the branches and the foliage overhead, and lay on the stream that shone in an easy curve like a bright sword- blade dropped amongst the long and feathery grass.

68 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

Further on, the path continued, narrowed again in the thick undergrowth. At the end of the first turning Willems saw a flash of white and colour, a gleam of gold like a sun-ray lost in shadow, and a vision of blackness darker than the deepest shade of the forest. He stop- ped, surprised, and fancied he had heard light footsteps –growing lighter–ceasing. He looked around. The grass on the bank of the stream trembled and a tremu- lous path of its shivering, silver-grey tops ran from the water to the beginning of the thicket. And yet there was not a breath of wind. Somebody kind passed there. He looked pensive while the tremor died out in a quick tremble under his eyes; and the grass stood high, un- stirring, with drooping heads in the warm and motion- less air.
He hurried on, driven by a suddenly awakened curi- osity, and entered the narrow way between the bushes. At the next turn of the path he caught again the glimpse of coloured stuff and of a woman’s black hair before him. He hastened his pace and came in full view of the object of his pursuit. The woman, who was carrying two bamboo vessels full of water, heard his footsteps, stopped, and putting the bamboos down half turned to look back. Willems also stood still for a minute, then walked steadily on with a firm tread, while the woman moved aside to let him pass. He kept his eyes fixed straight before him, yet almost unconsciously he took in every detail of the tall and graceful figure. As he approached her the woman tossed her head slightly back, and with a free gesture of her strong, round arm, caught up the mass of loose black hair and brought it over her shoulder and across the lower part of her face. The next moment he was passing her close, walking rigidly, like a man in a trance. He heard her rapid breathing and he felt the touch of a

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 69

look darted at him from half-open eyes. It touched his brain and his heart together. It seemed to him to be something loud and stirring like a shout, silent and penetrating like an inspiration. The momentum of his motion carried him past her, but an invisible force made up of surprise and curiosity and desire spun him round as soon as he had passed.
She had taken up her burden already, with the in- tention of pursuing her path. His sudden movement arrested her at the first step, and again she stood straight, slim, expectant, with a readiness to dart away suggested in the light immobility of her pose. High above, the branches of the trees met in a transparent shimmer of waving green mist, through which the rain of yellow rays descended upon her head, streamed in glints down her black tresses, shone with the changing glow of liquid metal on her face, and lost itself in vanish- ing sparks in the sombre depths of her eyes that, wide open now, with enlarged pupils, looked steadily at the man in her path. And Willems stared at her, charmed with a charm that carries with it a sense of irreparable loss, tingling with that feeling which begins like a caress and ends in a blow, in that sudden hurt of a new emo- tion making its way into a human heart, with the brusque stirring of sleeping sensations awakening sud- denly to the rush of new hopes, new fears, new desires –and to the flight of one’s old self.
She moved a step forward and again halted. A breath of wind that came through the trees, but in Willems’ fancy seemed to be driven by her moving figure, rippled in a hot wave round his body and scorched his face in a burning touch. He drew it in with a long breath, the last long breath of a soldier before the rush of battle, of a lover before he takes in his arms the adored woman; the breath that gives

70 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

courage to confront the menace of death or the storm of passion.
Who was she? Where did she come from? Wonder- ingly he took his eyes off her face to look round at the serried trees of the forest that stood big and still and straight, as if watching him and her breathlessly. He had been baffled, repelled, almost frightened by the intensity of that tropical life which wants the sunshine but works in gloom; which seems to be all grace of colour and form, all brilliance, all smiles, but is only the blossoming of the dead; whose mystery holds the promise of joy and beauty, yet contains nothing but poison and decay. He had been frightened by the vague perception of danger before, but now, as he looked at that life again, his eyes seemed able to pierce the fantastic veil of creepers and leaves, to look past the solid trunks, to see through the forbidding gloom– and the mystery was disclosed–enchanting, subduing, beautiful. He looked at the woman. Through the checkered light between them she appeared to him with the impalpable distinctness of a dream. The very spirit of that land of mysterious forests, standing before him like an apparition behind a transparent veil–a veil woven of sunbeams and shadows.
She had approached him still nearer. He felt a strange impatience within him at her advance. Con- fused thoughts rushed through his head, disordered, shapeless, stunning. Then he heard his own voice asking–
“Who are you?”
“I am the daughter of the blind Omar,” she answered, in a low but steady tone. “And you,” she went on, a little louder, “you are the white trader–the great man of this place.”
“Yes,” said Willems, holding her eyes with his in a

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 71

sense of extreme effort, “Yes, I am white.” Then he added, feeling as if he spoke about some other man, “But I am the outcast of my people.”
She listened to him gravely. Through the mesh of scattered hair her face looked like the face of a golden statue with living eyes. The heavy eyelids dropped slightly, and from between the long eyelashes she sent out a sidelong look: hard, keen, and narrow, like the gleam of sharp steel. Her lips were firm and composed in a graceful curve, but the distended nostrils, the up- ward poise of the half-averted head, gave to her whole person the expression of a wild and resentful defiance. A shadow passed over Willems’ face. He put his hand over his lips as if to keep back the words that wanted to come out in a surge of impulsive necessity, the outcome of dominant thought that rushes from the heart to the brain and must be spoken in the face of doubt, of danger, of fear, of destruction itself. “You are beautiful,” he whispered.
She looked at him again with a glance that running in one quick flash of her eyes over his sunburnt fea- tures, his broad shoulders, his straight, tall, motion- less figure, rested at last on the ground at his feet. Then she smiled. In the sombre beauty of her face that smile was like the first ray of light on a stormy daybreak that darts evanescent and pale through the gloomy clouds: the forerunner of sunrise and of thunder.

CHAPTER SEVEN

THERE are in our lives short periods which hold no place in memory but only as the recollection of a feeling. There is no remembrance of gesture, of action, of any outward manifestation of life; those are lost in the unearthly brilliance or in the unearthly gloom of such moments. We are absorbed in the contemplation of that something, within our bodies, which rejoices or suffers while the body goes on breathing, instinctively runs away or, not less instinctively, fights–perhaps dies. But death in such a moment is the privilege of the for- tunate, it is a high and rare favour, a supreme grace. Willems never remembered how and when he parted from Aissa. He caught himself drinking the muddy water out of the hollow of his hand, while his canoe was drifting in mid-stream past the last houses of Sambir. With his returning wits came the fear of something un- known that had taken possession of his heart, of some- thing inarticulate and masterful which could not speak and would be obeyed. His first impulse was that of revolt. He would never go back there. Never! He looked round slowly at the brilliance of things in the deadly sunshine and took up his paddle! How changed everything seemed! The river was broader, the sky was higher. How fast the canoe flew under the strokes of his paddle! Since when had he acquired the strength of two men or more? He looked up and down the reach at the forests of the bank with a confused notion that with one sweep of his hand he could tumble all these trees into the stream. His face felt burning. He

72

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 73

drank again, and shuddered with a depraved sense of pleasure at the after-taste of slime in the water. It was late when he reached Almayer’s house, but he crossed the dark and uneven courtyard, walking lightly in the radiance of some light of his own, invisible to other eyes. His host’s sulky greeting jarred him like a sudden fall down a great height. He took his place at the table opposite Almayer and tried to speak cheerfully to his gloomy companion, but when the meal was ended and they sat smoking in silence he felt an abrupt discouragement, a lassitude in all his limbs, a sense of immense sadness as after some great and irreparable loss. The darkness of the night entered his heart, bringing with it doubt and hesitation and dull anger with himself and all the world. He had an im- pulse to shout horrible curses, to quarrel with Almayer, to do something violent. Quite without any immediate provocation he thought he would like to assault the wretched, sulky beast. He glanced at him ferociously from under his eyebrows. The unconscious Almayer smoked thoughtfully, planning to-morrow’s work prob- ably. The man’s composure seemed to Willems an un- pardonable insult. Why didn’t that idiot talk to-night when he wanted him to? . . . on other nights he was ready enough to chatter. And such dull nonsense too! And Willems, trying hard to repress his own senseless rage, looked fixedly through the thick tobacco- smoke at the stained tablecloth.
They retired early, as usual, but in the middle of the night Willems leaped out of his hammock with a stifled execration and ran down the steps into the courtyard. The two night watchmen, who sat by a little fire talking together in a monotonous undertone, lifted their heads to look wonderingly at the discomposed features of the white man as he crossed the circle of light thrown out

74 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

by their fire. He disappeared in the darkness and then came back again, passing them close, but with no sign of consciousness of their presence on his face. Back- wards and forwards he paced, muttering to himself, and the two Malays, after a short consultation in whispers left the fire quietly, not thinking it safe to remain in the vicinity of a white man who behaved in such a strange manner. They retired round the corner of the godown and watched Willems curiously through the night, till the short daybreak was followed by the sudden blaze of the rising sun, and Almayer’s establishment woke up to life and work.
As soon as he could get away unnoticed in the bustle of the busy riverside, Willems crossed the river on his way to the place where he had met Aissa. He threw himself down in the grass by the side of the brook and listened for the sound of her footsteps. The brilliant light of day fell through the irregular opening in the high branches of the trees and streamed down, softened, amongst the shadows of big trunks. Here and there a narrow sunbeam touched the rugged bark of a tree with a golden splash, sparkled on the leaping water of the brook, or rested on a leaf that stood out, shimmering and distinct, on the monotonous background of sombre green tints. The clear gap of blue above his head was crossed by the quick flight of white rice-birds whose wings flashed in the sunlight, while through it the heat poured down from the sky, clung about the steaming earth, rolled among the trees, and wrapped up Willems in the soft and odorous folds of air heavy with the faint scent of blossoms and with the acrid smell of decaying life. And in that atmosphere of Nature’s workshop Willems felt soothed and lulled into forgetfulness of his past, into indifference as to his future. The recollec- tions of his triumphs, of his wrongs and of his ambition

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 75

vanished in that warmth, which seemed to melt all regrets, all hope, all anger, all strength out of his heart. And he lay there, dreamily contented, in the tepid and perfumed shelter, thinking of Aissa’s eyes; recalling the sound of her voice, the quiver of her lips–her frowns and her smile.
She came, of course. To her he was something new, unknown and strange. He was bigger, stronger than any man she had seen before, and altogether different from all those she knew. He was of the victorious race. With a vivid remembrance of the great catastrophe of her life he appeared to her with all the fascination of a great and dangerous thing; of a terror vanquished, sur- mounted, made a plaything of. They spoke with just such a deep voice–those victorious men; they looked with just such hard blue eyes at their enemies. And she made that voice speak softly to her, those eyes look tenderly at her face! He was indeed a man. She could not understand all he told her of his life, but the fragments she understood she made up for herself into a story of a man great amongst his own people, valorous and unfortunate; an undaunted fugitive dreaming of vengeance against his enemies. He had all the at- tractiveness of the vague and the unknown–of the unforeseen and of the sudden; of a being strong, danger- ous, alive, and human, ready to be enslaved. She felt that he was ready. She felt it with the unerring intuition of a primitive woman confronted by a simple impulse. Day after day, when they met and she stood a little way off, listening to his words, holding him with her look, the undefined terror of the new con- quest became faint and blurred like the memory of a dream, and the certitude grew distinct, and convincing, and visible to the eyes like some material thing in full sunlight. It was a deep joy, a great pride, a tangible

76 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

sweetness that seemed to leave the taste of honey on her lips. He lay stretched at her feet without moving, for he knew from experience how a slight movement of his could frighten her away in those first days of their inter- course. He lay very quiet, with all the ardour of his desire ringing in his voice and shining in his eyes, whilst his body was still, like death itself. And he looked at her, standing above him, her head lost in the shadow of broad and graceful leaves that touched her cheek; while the slender spikes of pale green orchids streamed down from amongst the boughs and mingled with the black hair that framed her face, as if all those plants claimed her for their own–the animated and brilliant flower of all that exuberant life which, born in gloom, struggles for ever towards the sunshine.
Every day she came a little nearer. He watched her slow progress–the gradual taming of that woman by the words of his love. It was the monotonous song of praise and desire that, commencing at creation, wraps up the world like an atmosphere and shall end only in the end of all things–when there are no lips to sing and no ears to hear. He told her that she was beautiful and desirable, and he repeated it again and again; for when he told her that, he had said all there was within him–he had expressed his only thought, his only feel- ing. And he watched the startled look of wonder and mistrust vanish from her face with the passing days, her eyes soften, the smile dwell longer and longer on her lips; a smile as of one charmed by a delightful dream; with the slight exaltation of intoxicating triumph lurk- tng in its dawning tenderness.
And while she was near there was nothing in the whole world–for that idle man–but her look and her smile. Nothing in the past, nothing in the future; and in the present only the luminous fact of her exis-

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 77

tence. But in the sudden darkness of her going he would be left weak and helpless, as though despoiled violently of all that was himself. He who had lived all his life with no preoccupation but that of his own career, contemptuously indifferent to all feminine in- fluence, full of scorn for men that would submit to it, if ever so little; he, so strong, so superior even in his errors, realized at last that his very individuality was snatched from within himself by the hand of a woman. Where was the assurance and pride of his cleverness; the belief in success, the anger of failure, the wish to retrieve his fortune, the certitude of his ability to accomplish it yet? Gone. All gone. All that had been a man within him was gone, and there remained only the trouble of his heart–that heart which had become a contemptible thing; which could be fluttered by a look or a smile, tormented by a word, soothed by a promise.
When the longed-for day came at last, when she sank on the grass by his side and with a quick gesture took his hand in hers, he sat up suddenly with the movement and look of a man awakened by the crash of his own falling house. All his blood, all his sensa- tion, all his life seemed to rush into that hand leaving him without strength, in a cold shiver, in the sudden clamminess and collapse as of a deadly gun-shot wound. He flung her hand away brutally, like something burning, and sat motionless, his head fallen forward, staring on the ground and catching his breath in painful gasps. His impulse of fear and apparent horror did not dismay her in the least. Her face was grave and her eyes looked seriously at him. Her fingers touched the hair of his temple, ran in a light caress down his cheek, twisted gently the end of his long moustache: and while he sat in the tremor of that

78 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

contact she ran off with startling fleetness and dis- appeared in a peal of clear laughter, in the stir of grass, in the nod of young twigs growing over the path; leav- ing behind only a vanishing trail of motion and sound. He scrambled to his feet slowly and painfully, like a man with a burden on his shoulders, and walked towards the riverside. He hugged to his breast the recollection of his fear and of his delight, but told himself seriously over and over again that this must be the end of that adventure. After shoving off his canoe into the stream he lifted his eyes to the bank and gazed at it long and steadily, as if taking his last look at a place of charming memories. He marched up to Almayer’s house with the concentrated expres- sion and the determined step of a man who had just taken a momentous resolution. His face was set and rigid, his gestures and movements were guarded and slow. He was keeping a tight hand on himself. A very tight hand. He had a vivid illusion–as vivid as reality almost–of being in charge of a slippery prisoner. He sat opposite Almayer during that dinner–which was their last meal together–with a perfectly calm face and within him a growing terror of escape from his own self. Now and then he would grasp the edge of the table and set his teeth hard in a sudden wave of acute despair, like one who, falling down a smooth and rapid declivity that ends in a precipice, digs his finger nails into the yielding surface and feels himself slipping helplessly to inevitable destruction.
Then, abruptly, came a relaxation of his muscles, the giving way of his will. Something seemed to snap in his head, and that wish, that idea kept back during all those hours, darted into his brain with the heat and noise of a conflagration. He must see her! See her at once! Go now! To-night! He had the

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 79

raging regret of the lost hour, of every passing moment. There was no thought of resistance now. Yet with the instinctive fear of the irrevocable, with the innate falseness of the human heart, he wanted to keep open the way of retreat. He had never absented himself during the night. What did Almayer know? What would Almayer think? Better ask him for the gun. A moonlight night. . . . Look for deer. . . . A colourable pretext. He would lie to Almayer. What did it matter! He lied to himself every minute of his life. And for what? For a woman. And such. . . . Almayer’s answer showed him that deception was useless. Everything gets to be known, even in this place. Well, he did not care. Cared for nothing but for the lost seconds. What if he should suddenly die. Die before he saw her. Before he could . . . As, with the sound of Almayer’s laughter in his ears, he urged his canoe in a slanting course across the rapid current, he tried to tell himself that he could return at any moment. He would just go and look at the place where they used to meet, at the tree under which he lay when she took his hand, at the spot where she sat by his side. Just go there and then return–nothing more; but when his little skiff touched the bank he leaped out, forgetting the painter, and the canoe hung for a moment amongst the bushes and then swung out of sight before he had time to dash into the water and secure it. He was thunderstruck at first. Now he could not go back unless he called up the Rajah’s people to get a boat and rowers–and the way to Pata- lolo’s campong led past Aissa’s house!
He went up the path with the eager eyes and reluctant steps of a man pursuing a phantom, and when he found himself at a place where a narrow track branched off to the left towards Omar’s clearing he stood still, with a

80 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

look of strained attention on his face as if listening to a far-off voice–the voice of his fate. It was a sound inarticulate but full of meaning; and following it there came a rending and tearing within his breast. He twisted his fingers together, and the joints of his hands and arms cracked. On his forehead the perspiration stood out in small pearly drops. He looked round wildly. Above the shapeless darkness of the forest undergrowth rose the treetops with their high boughs and leaves standing out black on the pale sky–like fragments of night floating on moonbeams. Under his feet warm steam rose from the heated earth. Round him there was a great silence.
He was looking round for help. This silence, this immobility of his surroundings seemed to him a cold rebuke, a stern refusal, a cruel unconcern. There was no safety outside of himself–and in himself there was no refuge; there was only the image of that woman. He had a sudden moment of lucidity–of that cruel lucidity that comes once in life to the most benighted. He seemed to see what went on within him, and was horrified at the strange sight. He, a white man whose worst fault till then had been a little want of judgment and too much confidence in the rectitude of his kind! That woman was a complete savage, and . . . He tried to tell himself that the thing was of no consequence. It was a vain effort. The novelty of the sensations he had never experienced before in the slightest degree, yet had despised on hearsay from his safe position of a civilized man, destroyed his courage. He was dis- appointed with himself. He seemed to be surrendering to a wild creature the unstained purity of his life, of his race, of his civilization. He had a notion of being lost amongst shapeless things that were dangerous and ghastly. He struggled with the sense of certain defeat

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 81

–lost his footing–fell back into the darkness. With a faint cry and an upward throw of his arms he gave up as a tired swimmer gives up: because the swamped craft is gone from under his feet; because the night is dark and the shore is far–because death is better than strife.

[page intentionally blank]

PART II

[page intentionally blank]

CHAPTER ONE

THE light and heat fell upon the settlement, the clearings, and the river as if flung down by an angry hand. The land lay silent, still, and brilliant under the avalanche of burning rays that had destroyed all sound and all motion, had buried all shadows, had choked every breath. No living thing dared to affront the serenity of this cloudless sky, dared to revolt against the oppression of this glorious and cruel sun- shine. Strength and resolution, body and mind alike were helpless, and tried to hide before the rush of the fire from heaven. Only the frail butterflies, the fear- less children of the sun, the capricious tyrants of the flowers, fluttered audaciously in the open, and their minute shadows hovered in swarms over the drooping blossoms, ran lightly on the withering grass, or glided on tbe dry and cracked earth. No voice was heard in this hot noontide but the faint murmur of the river that hurried on in swirls and eddies, its sparkling wavelets chasing each other in their joyous course to the shel- tering depths, to the cool refuge of the sea. Almayer had dismissed his workmen for the midday rest, and, his little daughter on his shoulder, ran quickly across the courtyard, making for the shade of the verandah of his house. He laid the sleepy child on the seat of the big rocking-chair, on a pillow which he took out of his own hammock, and stood for a while looking down at her with tender and pensive eyes. The child, tired and hot, moved uneasily, sighed, and looked up at him with the veiled look of sleepy fatigue.

85

86 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

He picked up from the floor a broken palm-leaf fan, and began fanning gently the flushed little face. Her eyelids fluttered and Almayer smiled. A responsive smile brightened for a second her heavy eyes, broke with a dimple the soft outline of her cheek; then the eyelids dropped suddenly, she drew a long breath through the parted lips–and was in a deep sleep before the fleeting smile could vanish from her face. Almayer moved lightly off, took one of the wooden armchairs, and placing it close to the balustrade of the verandah sat down with a sigh of relief. He spread his elbows on the top rail and resting his chin on his clasped hands looked absently at the river, at the dance of sunlight on the flowing water. Gradually the forest of the further bank became smaller, as if sinking below the level of the river. The outlines wavered, grew thin, dissolved in the air. Before his eyes there was now only a space of undulating blue–one big, empty sky growing dark at times. . . . Where was the sunshine? . . . He felt soothed and happy, as if some gentle and invisible hand had removed from his soul the burden of his body. In another second he seemed to float out into a cool brightness where there was no such thing as memory or pain. Delicious. His eyes closed–opened–closed again.
“Almayer!”
With a sudden jerk of his whole body he sat up, grasping the front rail with both his hands, and blinked stupidly.
“What? What’s that?” he muttered, looking round vaguely.
“Here! Down here, Almayer.”
Half rising in his chair, Almayer looked over the rail at the foot of the verandah, and fell back with a low whistle of astonishment.

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 87

“A ghost, by heavens!” he exclaimed softly to him- self.
“Will you listen to me?” went on the husky voice from the courtyard. “May I come up, Almayer?” Almayer stood up and leaned over the rail. “Don’t you dare,” he said, in a voice subdued but distinct. “Don’t you dare! The child sleeps here. And I don’t want to hear you–or speak to you either.” “You must listen to me! It’s something important.” “Not to me, surely.”
“Yes! To you. Very important.”
“You were always a humbug,” said Almayer, after a short silence, in an indulgent tone. “Always! I remember the old days. Some fellows used to say there was no one like you for smartness–but you never took me in. Not quite. I never quite believed in you, Mr. Willems.”
“I admit your superior intelligence,” retorted Wil- lems, with scornful impatience, from below. “Listen- ing to me would be a further proof of it. You will be sorry if you don’t.”
“Oh, you funny fellow!” said Almayer, banteringly. “Well, come up. Don’t make a noise, but come up. You’ll catch a sunstroke down there and die on my doorstep perhaps. I don’t want any tragedy here. Come on!”
Before he finished speaking Willems’ head appeared above the level of the floor, then his shoulders rose gradually and he stood at last before Almayer–a masquerading spectre of the once so very confidential clerk of the richest merchant in the islands. His jacket was soiled and torn; below the waist he was clothed in a worn-out and faded sarong. He flung off his hat, uncovering his long, tangled hair that stuck in wisps on his perspiring forehead and straggled over

88 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

his eyes, which glittered deep down in the sockets like the last sparks amongst the black embers of a burnt-out fire. An unclean beard grew out of the caverns of his sunburnt cheeks. The hand he put out towards Almayer was very unsteady. The once firm mouth had the tell-tale droop of mental suffer- ing and physical exhaustion. He was barefooted. Almayer surveyed him with leisurely composure. “Well!” he said at last, without taking the extended hand which dropped slowly along Willems’ body. “I am come,” began Willems.
“So I see,” interrupted Almayer. “You might have spared me this treat without making me unhappy. You have been away five weeks, if I am not mistaken. I got on very well without you–and now you are here you are not pretty to look at.”
“Let me speak, will you!” exclaimed Willems. “Don’t shout like this. Do you think yourself in the forest with your . . . your friends? This is a civil- ized man’s house. A white man’s. Understand?” “I am come,” began Willems again; “I am come for your good and mine.”
“You look as if you had come for a good feed,” chimed in the irrepressible Almayer, while Willems waved his hand in a discouraged gesture. “Don’t they give you enough to eat,” went on Almayer, in a tone of easy banter, “those–what am I to call them –those new relations of yours? That old blind scoun- drel must be delighted with your company. You know, he was the greatest thief and murderer of those seas. Say! do you exchange confidences? Tell me, Willems, did you kill somebody in Macassar or did you only steal something?”
“It is not true!” exclaimed Willems, hotly. “I only borrowed. . . . They all lied! I . . .”

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 89

“Sh-sh!” hissed Almayer, warningly, with a look at the sleeping child. “So you did steal,” he went on, with repressed exultation. “I thought there was something of the kind. And now, here, you steal again.”
For the first time Willems raised his eyes to Almayer’s face.
“Oh, I don’t mean from me. I haven’t missed any- thing,” said Almayer, with mocking haste. “But that girl. Hey! You stole her. You did not pay the old fellow. She is no good to him now, is she?” “Stop that. Almayer!”
Something in Willems’ tone caused Almayer to pause. He looked narrowly at the man before him, and could not help being shocked at his appearance. “Almayer,” went on Willems, “listen to me. If you are a human being you will. I suffer horribly– and for your sake.”
Almayer lifted his eyebrows. “Indeed! How? But you are raving,” he added, negligently.
“Ah! You don’t know,” whispered Willems. “She is gone. Gone,” he repeated, with tears in his voice, “gone two days ago.”
“No!” exclaimed the surprised Almayer. “Gone! I haven’t heard that news yet.” He burst into a sub- dued laugh. “How funny! Had enough of you already? You know it’s not flattering for you, my superior countryman.”
Willems–as if not hearing him–leaned against one of the columns of the roof and looked over the river. “At first,” he whispered, dreamily, “my life was like a vision of heaven–or hell; I didn’t know which. Since she went I know what perdition means; what darkness is. I know what it is to be torn to pieces alive. That’s how I feel.”

90 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

“You may come and live with me again,” said Almayer, coldly. “After all, Lingard–whom I call my father and respect as such–left you under my care. You pleased yourself by going away. Very good. Now you want to come back. Be it so. I am no friend of yours. I act for Captain Lingard.” “Come back?” repeated Willems, passionately. “Come back to you and abandon her? Do you think I am mad? Without her! Man! what are you made of? To think that she moves, lives, breathes out of my sight. I am jealous of the wind that fans her, of the air she breathes, of the earth that receives the caress of her foot, of the sun that looks at her now while I . . . I haven’t seen her for two days–two days.” The intensity of Willems’ feeling moved Almayer somewhat, but he affected to yawn elaborately “You do bore me,” he muttered. “Why don’t you go after her instead of coming here?”
“Why indeed?”
“Don’t you know where she is? She can’t be very far. No native craft has left this river for the last fortnight.”
“No! not very far–and I will tell you where she is. She is in Lakamba’s campong.” And Willems fixed his eyes steadily on Almayer’s face.
“Phew! Patalolo never sent to let me know. Strange,” said Almayer, thoughtfully. “Are you afraid of that lot?” he added, after a short pause. “I–afraid!”
“Then is it the care of your dignity which pre- vents you from following her there, my high-minded friend?” asked Almayer, with mock solicitude. “How noble of you!”
There was a short silence; then Willems said, quietly, “You are a fool. I should like to kick you.”

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 91

“No fear,” answered Almayer, carelessly; “you are too weak for that. You look starved.”
“I don’t think I have eaten anything for the last two days; perhaps more–I don’t remember. It does not matter. I am full of live embers,” said Willems, gloomily. “Look!” and he bared an arm covered with fresh scars. “I have been biting myself to forget in that pain the fire that hurts me there!” He struck his breast violently with his fist, reeled under his own blow, fell into a chair that stood near and closed his eyes slowly.
“Disgusting exhibition,” said Almayer, loftily. “What could father ever see in you? You are as estimable as a heap of garbage.”
“You talk like that! You, who sold your soul for a few guilders,” muttered Willems, wearily, without opening his eyes.
“Not so few,” said Almayer, with instinctive readi- ness, and stopped confused for a moment. He re- covered himself quickly, however, and went on: “But you–you have thrown yours away for nothing; flung it under the feet of a damned savage woman who has made you already the thing you are, and will kill you very soon, one way or another, with her love or with her hate. You spoke just now about guilders. You meant Lingard’s money, I suppose. Well, whatever I have sold, and for whatever price, I never meant you –you of all people–to spoil my bargain. I feel pretty safe though. Even father, even Captain Lingard, would not touch you now with a pair of tongs; not with a ten-foot pole. . . .”
He spoke excitedly, all in one breath, and, ceasing suddenly, glared at Willems and breathed hard through his nose in sulky resentment. Willems looked at him steadily for a moment, then got up.

92 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

“Almayer,” he said resolutely, “I want to become a trader in this place.”
Almayer shrugged his shoulders.
“Yes. And you shall set me up. I want a house and trade goods–perhaps a little money. I ask you for it.” “Anything else you want? Perhaps this coat?” and here Almayer unbuttoned his jacket–“or my house –or my boots?”
“After all it’s natural,” went on Willems, without paying any attention to Almayer–“it’s natural that she should expect the advantages which . . . and then I could shut up that old wretch and then . . .” He paused, his face brightened with the soft light of dreamy enthusiasm, and he turned his eyes upwards. With his gaunt figure and dilapidated appearance he looked like some ascetic dweller in a wilderness, finding the reward of a self-denying life in a vision of dazzling glory. He went on in an impassioned murmur– “And then I would have her all to myself away from her people–all to myself–under my own influence –to fashion–to mould–to adore–to soften–to . . . Oh! Delight! And then–then go away to some distant place where, far from all she knew, I would be all the world to her! All the world to her!” His face changed suddenly. His eyes wandered for awhile and then became steady all at once. “I would repay every cent, of course,” he said, in a business-like tone, with something of his old assurance, of his old belief in himself, in it. “Every cent. I need not interfere with your business. I shall cut out the small native traders. I have ideas–but never mind that now. And Captain Lingard would approve, I feel sure. After all it’s a loan, and I shall be at hand. Safe thing for you.”
“Ah! Captain Lingard would approve! He would

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 93

app . . .” Almayer choked. The notion of Lin- gard doing something for Willems enraged him. His face was purple. He spluttered insulting words. Wil- lems looked at him coolly.
“I assure you, Almayer,” he said, gently, “that I have good grounds for my demand.”
“Your cursed impudence!”
“Believe me, Almayer, your position here is not so safe as you may think. An unscrupulous rival here would destroy your trade in a year. It would be ruin. Now Lingard’s long absence gives courage to certain individuals. You know?–I have heard much lately. They made proposals to me . . . You are very much alone here. Even Patalolo . . .”
“Damn Patalolo! I am master in this place.” “But, Almayer, don’t you see . . .”
“Yes, I see. I see a mysterious ass,” interrupted Almayer, violently. “What is the meaning of your veiled threats? Don’t you think I know something also? They have been intriguing for years–and nothing has happened. The Arabs have been hanging about outside this river for years–and I am still the only trader here; the master here. Do you bring me a declaration of war? Then it’s from yourself only. I know all my other enemies. I ought to knock you on the head. You are not worth powder and shot though. You ought to be destroyed with a stick–like a snake.” Almayer’s voice woke up the little girl, who sat up on the pillow with a sharp cry. He rushed over to the chair, caught up the child in his arms, walked back blindly, stumbled against Willems’ hat which lay on the floor, and kicked it furiously down the steps. “Clear out of this! Clear out!” he shouted. Willems made an attempt to speak, but Almayer howled him down.

94 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

“Take yourself off! Don’t you see you frighten the child–you scarecrow! No, no! dear,” he went on to his little daughter, soothingly, while Willems walked down the steps slowly. “No. Don’t cry. See! Bad man going away. Look! He is afraid of your papa. Nasty, bad man. Never come back again. He shall live in the woods and never come near my little girl. If he comes papa will kill him–so!” He struck his fist on the rail of the balustrade to show how he would kill Willems, and, perching the consoled child on his shoulder held her with one hand, while he pointed toward the retreating figure of his visitor. “Look how he runs away, dearest,” he said, coax- ingly. “Isn’t he funny. Call ‘pig’ after him, dearest. Call after him.”
The seriousness of her face vanished into dimples. Under the long eyelashes, glistening with recent tears, her big eyes sparkled and danced with fun. She took firm hold of Almayer’s hair with one hand, while she waved the other joyously and called out with all her might, in a clear note, soft and distinct like the pipe of a bird:–
“Pig! Pig! Pig!”

CHAPTER TWO

A SIGH under the flaming blue, a shiver of the sleeping sea, a cool breath as if a door had been swung upon the frozen spaces of the universe, and with a stir of leaves, with the nod of boughs, with the tremble of slender branches the sea breeze struck the coast, rushed up the river, swept round the broad reaches, and travelled on in a soft ripple of darkening water, in the whisper of branches, in the rustle of leaves of the awakened forests. It fanned in Lakamba’s campong the dull red of expiring embers into a pale brilliance; and, under its touch, the slender, upright spirals of smoke that rose from every glowing heap swayed, wavered, and eddying down filled the twilight of clustered shade trees with the aromatic scent of the burning wood. The men who had been dozing in the shade during the hot hours of the afternoon woke up, and the silence of the big courtyard was broken by the hesitating murmur of yet sleepy voices, by coughs and yawns, with now and then a burst of laugh- ter, a loud hail, a name or a joke sent out in a soft drawl. Small groups squatted round the little fires, and the monotonous undertone of talk filled the en- closure; the talk of barbarians, persistent, steady, repeating itself in the soft syllables, in musical tones of the never-ending discourses of those men of the forests and the sea, who can talk most of the day and all the night; who never exhaust a subject, never seem able to thresh a matter out; to whom that talk is poetry and painting and music, all art, all history;

95

96 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

their only accomplishment, their only superiority, their only amusement. The talk of camp fires, which speaks of bravery and cunning, of strange events and of far countries, of the news of yesterday and the news of to-morrow. The talk about the dead and the living– about those who fought and those who loved. Lakamba came out on the platform before his own house and sat down–perspiring, half asleep, and sulky –in a wooden armchair under the shade of the over- hanging eaves. Through the darkness of the doorway he could hear the soft warbling of his womenkind, busy round the looms where they were weaving the checkered pattern of his gala sarongs. Right and left of him on the flexible bamboo floor those of his followers to whom their distinguished birth, long devotion, or faithful service had given the privilege of using the chief’s house, were sleeping on mats or just sat up rubbing their eyes: while the more wakeful had mustered enough energy to draw a chessboard with red clay on a fine mat and were now meditating silently over their moves. Above the prostrate forms of the players, who lay face downward supported on elbow, the soles of their feet waving irresolutely about, in the absorbed meditation of the game, there towered here and there the straight figure of an attentive spectator looking down with dispassionate but profound interest. On the edge of the platform a row of high-heeled leather sandals stood ranged carefully in a level line, and against the rough wooden rail leaned the slender shafts of the spears belonging to these gentlemen, the broad blades of dulled steel looking very black in the reddening light of approaching sunset.
A boy of about twelve–the personal attendant of Lakamba–squatted at his master’s feet and held up towards him a silver siri box. Slowly Lakamba took

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 97

the box, opened it, and tearing off a piece of green leaf deposited in it a pinch of lime, a morsel of gambier, a small bit of areca nut, and wrapped up the whole with a dexterous twist. He paused, morsel in hand, seemed to miss something, turned his head from side to side, slowly, like a man with a stiff neck, and ejacu- lated in an ill-humoured bass–
“Babalatchi!”
The players glanced up quickly, and looked down again directly. Those men who were standing stirred uneasily as if prodded by the sound of the chief’s voice. The one nearest to Lakamba repeated the call, after a while, over the rail into the courtyard. There was a movement of upturned faces below by the fires, and the cry trailed over the enclosure in sing-song tones. The thumping of wooden pestles husking the evening rice stopped for a moment and Babalatchi’s name rang afresh shrilly on women’s lips in various keys. A voice far off shouted something–another, nearer, repeated it; there was a short hubbub which died out with extreme suddenness. The first crier turned to Lakamba, saying indolently–
“He is with the blind Omar.”
Lakamba’s lips moved inaudibly. The man who had just spoken was again deeply absorbed in the game going on at his feet; and the chief–as if he had forgotten all about it already–sat with a stolid face amongst his silent followers, leaning back squarely in his chair, his hands on the arms of his seat, his knees apart, his big blood-shot eyes blinking solemnly, as if dazzled by the noble vacuity of his thoughts. Babalatchi had gone to see old Omar late in the afternoon. The delicate manipulation of the ancient pirate’s susceptibilities, the skilful management of Aissa’s violent impulses engrossed him to the exclusion

98 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

of every other business–interfered with his regular attendance upon his chief and protector–even dis- turbed his sleep for the last three nights. That day when he left his own bamboo hut–which stood amongst others in Lakamba’s campong–his heart was heavy with anxiety and with doubt as to the success of his intrigue. He walked slowly, with his usual air of detachment from his surroundings, as if unaware that many sleepy eyes watched from all parts of the courtyard his progress towards a small gate at its upper end. That gate gave access to a separate enclosure in which a rather large house, built of planks, had been prepared by Lakamba’s orders for the reception of Omar and Aissa. It was a superior kind of habita- tion which Lakamba intended for the dwelling of his chief adviser–whose abilities were worth that honour, he thought. But after the consultation in the deserted clearing–when Babalatchi had disclosed his plan– they both had agreed that the new house should be used at first to shelter Omar and Aissa after they had been persuaded to leave the Rajah’s place, or had been kidnapped from there–as the case might be. Babalat- chi did not mind in the least the putting off of his own occupation of the house of honour, because it had many advantages for the quiet working out of his plans. It had a certain seclusion, having an enclosure of its own, and that enclosure communicated also with Lakamba’s private courtyard at the back of his residence–a place set apart for the female household of the chief. The only communication with the river was through the great front courtyard always full of armed men and watchful eyes. Behind the whole group of buildings there stretched the level ground of rice-clearings, which in their turn were closed in by the wall of untouched forests with undergrowth so thick and tangled that

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 99

nothing but a bullet–and that fired at pretty close range–could penetrate any distance there. Babalatchi slipped quietly through the little gate and, closing it, tied up carefully the rattan fastenings. Before the house there was a square space of ground, beaten hard into the level smoothness of asphalte. A big buttressed tree, a giant left there on purpose during the process of clearing the land, roofed in the clear space with a high canopy of gnarled boughs and thick, sombre leaves. To the right–and some small distance away from the large house–a little hut of reeds, covered with mats, had been put up for the special convenience of Omar, who, being blind and infirm, had some difficulty in ascending the steep plankway that led to the more substantial dwelling, which was built on low posts and had an uncovered verandah. Close by the trunk of the tree, and facing the doorway of the hut, the household fire glowed in a small handful of embers in the midst of a large circle of white ashes. An old woman–some humble relation of one of La- kamba’s wives, who had been ordered to attend on Aissa–was squatting over the fire and lifted up her bleared eyes to gaze at Babalatchi in an uninterested manner, as he advanced rapidly across the courtyard. Babalatchi took in the courtyard with a keen glance of his solitary eye, and without looking down at the old woman muttered a question. Silently, the woman stretched a tremulous and emaciated arm towards the hut. Babalatchi made a few steps towards the door- way, but stopped outside in the sunlight. “O! Tuan Omar, Omar besar! It is I–Baba- latchi!”
Within the hut there was a feeble groan, a fit of coughing and an indistinct murmur in the broken tones of a vague plaint. Encouraged evidently by those

100 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

signs of dismal life within, Babalatchi entered the hut, and after some time came out leading with rigid care- fulness the blind Omar, who followed with both his hands on his guide’s shoulders. There was a rude seat under the tree, and there Babalatchi led his old chief, who sat down with a sigh of relief and leaned wearily against the rugged trunk. The rays of the setting sun, darting under the spreading branches, rested on the white-robed figure sitting with head thrown back in stiff dignity, on the thin hands moving uneasily, and on the stolid face with its eyelids dropped over the destroyed eyeballs; a face set into the immo- bility of a plaster cast yellowed by age. “Is the sun near its setting?” asked Omar, in a dull voice.
“Very near,” answered Babalatchi. “Where am I? Why have I been taken away from the place which I knew–where I, blind, could move without fear? It is like black night to those who see. And the sun is near its setting–and I have not heard the sound of her footsteps since the morning! Twice a strange hand has given me my food to-day. Why? Why? Where is she?”
“She is near,” said Babalatchi.
“And he?” went on Omar, with sudden eagerness, and a drop in his voice. “Where is he? Not here. Not here!” he repeated, turning his head from side to side as if in deliberate attempt to see. “No! He is not here now,” said Babalatchi, sooth- ingly. Then, after a pause, he added very low, “But he shall soon return.”
“Return! O crafty one! Will he return? I have cursed him three times,” exclaimed Omar, with weak violence.
“He is–no doubt–accursed,” assented Babalatchi,

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 101

in a conciliating manner–“and yet he will be here before very long–I know!”
“You are crafty and faithless. I have made you great. You were dirt under my feet–less than dirt,” said Omar, with tremulous energy.
“I have fought by your side many times,” said Babalatchi, calmly.
“Why did he come?” went on Omar. “Did you send him? Why did he come to defile the air I breathe –to mock at my fate–to poison her mind and steal her body? She has grown hard of heart to me. Hard and merciless and stealthy like rocks that tear a ship’s life out under the smooth sea.” He drew a long breath, struggled with his anger, then broke down suddenly. “I have been hungry,” he continued, in a whimpering tone–“often I have been very hungry–and cold– and neglected–and nobody near me. She has often forgotten me–and my sons are dead, and that man is an infidel and a dog. Why did he come? Did you show him the way?”
“He found the way himself, O Leader of the brave,” said Babalatchi, sadly. “I only saw a way for their destruction and our own greatness. And if I saw aright, then you shall never suffer from hunger any more. There shall be peace for us, and glory and riches.”
“And I shall die to-morrow,” murmured Omar, bitterly.
“Who knows? Those things have been written since the beginning of the world,” whispered Babalatchi, thoughtfully.
“Do not let him come back,” exclaimed Omar. “Neither can he escape his fate,” went on Baba- latchi. “He shall come back, and the power of men we always hated, you and I, shall crumble into dust

102 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

in our hand.” Then he added with enthusiasm, “They shall fight amongst themselves and perish both.” “And you shall see all this, while, I . . .” “True!” murmured Babalatchi, regretfully. “To you life is darkness.”
“No! Flame!” exclaimed the old Arab, half rising, then falling back in his seat. “The flame of that last day! I see it yet–the last thing I saw! And I hear the noise of the rent earth–when they all died. And I live to be the plaything of a crafty one,” he added, with inconsequential peevishness.
“You are my master still,” said Babalatchi, humbly. “You are very wise–and in your wisdom you shall speak to Syed Abdulla when he comes here–you shall speak to him as I advised, I, your servant, the man who fought at your right hand for many years. I have heard by a messenger that the Syed Abdulla is coming to-night, perhaps late; for those things must be done secretly, lest the white man, the trader up the river, should know of them. But he will be here. There has been a surat delivered to Lakamba. In it, Syed Abdulla says he will leave his ship, which is anchored outside the river, at the hour of noon to-day. He will be here before daylight if Allah wills.” He spoke with his eye fixed on the ground, and did not become aware of Aissa’s presence till he lifted his head when he ceased speaking. She had approached so quietly that even Omar did not hear her footsteps, and she stood now looking at them with troubled eyes and parted lips, as if she was going to speak; but at Babalatchi’s entreating gesture she remained silent. Omar sat absorbed in thought.
“Ay wa! Even so!” he said at last, in a weak voice. “I am to speak your wisdom, O Babalatchi! Tell him to trust the white man! I do not understand. I am

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 103

old and blind and weak. I do not understand. I am very cold,” he continued, in a lower tone, moving his shoulders uneasily. He ceased, then went on rambling in a faint whisper. “They are the sons of witches, and their father is Satan the stoned. Sons of witches. Sons of witches.” After a short silence he asked sud- denly, in a firmer voice–“How many white men are there here, O crafty one?”
“There are two here. Two white men to fight one another,” answered Babalatchi, with alacrity. “And how many will be left then? How many? Tell me, you who are wise.”
“The downfall of an enemy is the consolation of the unfortunate,” said Babalatchi, sententiously. “They are on every sea; only the wisdom of the Most High knows their number–but you shall know that some of them suffer.”
“Tell me, Babalatchi, will they die? Will they both die?” asked Omar, in sudden agitation.
Aissa made a movement. Babalatchi held up a warning hand.
“They shall, surely, die,” he said steadily, looking at the girl with unflinching eye.
“Ay wa! But die soon! So that I can pass my hand over their faces when Allah has made them stiff.” “If such is their fate and yours,” answered Baba- latchi, without hesitation. “God is great!” A violent fit of coughing doubled Omar up, and he rocked himself to and fro, vvheezing and moaning in turns, while Babalatchi and the girl looked at him in silence. Then he leaned back against the tree, exhausted. “I am alone, I am alone,” he wailed feebly, groping vaguely about with his trembling hands. “Is there anybody near me? Is there anybody? I am afraid of this strange place.”

104 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

“I am by your side, O Leader of the brave,” said Babalatchi, touching his shoulder lightly. “Always by your side as in the days when we both were young: as in the time when we both went with arms in our hands.”
“Has there been such a time, Babalatchi?” said Omar, wildly; “I have forgotten. And now when I die there will be no man, no fearless man to speak of his father’s bravery. There was a woman! A woman! And she has forsaken me for an infidel dog. The hand of the Compassionate is heavy on my head! Oh, my calamity! Oh, my shame!”
He calmed down after a while, and asked quietly– “Is the sun set, Babalatchi?”
“It is now as low as the highest tree I can see from here,” answered Babalatchi.
“It is the time of prayer,” said Omar, attempting to get up.
Dutifully Babalatchi helped his old chief to rise, and they walked slowly towards the hut. Omar waited outside, while Babalatchi went in and came out directly, dragging after him the old Arab’s praying carpet. Out of a brass vessel he poured the water of ablution on Omar’s outstretched hands, and eased him carefully down into a kneeling posture, for the venerable robber was far too infirm to be able to stand. Then as Omar droned out the first words and made his first bow towards the Holy City, Babalatchi stepped noiselessly towards Aissa, who did not move all the time. Aissa looked steadily at the one-eyed sage, who was approaching her slowly and with a great show of defer- ence. For a moment they stood facing each other in silence. Babalatchi appeared embarrassed. With a sudden and quick gesture she caught hold of his arm, and with the other hand pointed towards the sinking

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 105

red disc that glowed, rayless, through the floating mists of the evening.
“The third sunset! The last! And he is not here,” she whispered; “what have you done, man without faith? What have you done?”
“Indeed I have kept my word,” murmured Baba- latchi, earnestly. “This morning Bulangi went with a canoe to look for him. He is a strange man, but our friend, and shall keep close to him and watch him without ostentation. And at the third hour of the day I have sent another canoe with four rowers. In- deed, the man you long for, O daughter of Omar! may come when he likes.”
“But he is not here! I waited for him yesterday. To-day! To-morrow I shall go.”
“Not alive!” muttered Babalatchi to himself. “And do you doubt your power,” he went on in a louder tone–“you that to him are more beautiful than an houri of the seventh Heaven? He is your slave.” “A slave does run away sometimes,” she said, gloom- ily, “and then the master must go and seek him out.”
“And do you want to live and die a beggar?” asked Babalatchi, impatiently.
“I care not,” she exclaimed, wringing her hands; and the black pupils of her wide-open eyes darted wildly here and there like petrels before the storm. “Sh! Sh!” hissed Babalatchi, with a glance towards Omar. “Do you think, O girl! that he himself would live like a beggar, even with you?”
“He is great,” she said, ardently. “He despises you all! He despises you all! He is indeed a man!” “You know that best,” muttered Babalatchi, with a fugitive smile–“but remember, woman with the strong heart, that to hold him now you must be to

106 AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS

him like the great sea to thirsty men–a never-ceasing torment, and a madness.”
He ceased and they stood in silence, both looking on the ground, and for a time nothing was heard above the crackling of the fire but the intoning of Omar glorifying the God–his God, and the Faith–his faith. Then Babalatchi cocked his head on one side and ap- peared to listen intently to the hum of voices in the big courtyard. The dull noise swelled into distinct shouts, then into a great tumult of voices, dying away, recommencing, growing louder, to cease again abruptly; and in those short pauses the shrill vociferations of women rushed up, as if released, towards the quiet heaven. Aissa and Babalatchi started, but the latter gripped in his turn the girl’s arm and restrained her with a strong grasp.
“Wait,” he whispered.
The little door in the heavy stockade which sepa- rated Lakamba’s private ground from Omar’s enclosure swung back quickly, and the noble exile appeared with disturbed mien and a naked short sword in his hand. His turban was half unrolled, and the end trailed on the ground behind him. His jacket was open. He breathed thickly for a moment before he spoke. “He came in Bulangi’s boat,” he said, “and walked quietly till he was in my presence, when the senseless fury of white men caused him to rush upon me. I have been in great danger,” went on the ambitious nobleman in an aggrieved tone. “Do you hear that, Babalatchi? That eater of swine aimed a blow at my face with his unclean fist. He tried to rush amongst my household. Six men are holding him now.” A fresh outburst of yells stopped Lakamba’s dis- course. Angry voices shouted: “Hold him. Beat him down. Strike at his head.” Then the clamour ceased

AN OUTCAST OF THE ISLANDS 107

with sudden completeness, as if strangled by a mighty hand, and after a second of surprising silence the voice of Willems was heard alone, howling maledictions in