Lingard cut short Babalatchi’s protestations by a contemptuous wave of the hand and reseated himself with dignity.
“I shall go,” said Babalatchi, “and the white man will remain here, alone with the spirit of the dead and with her who has been the delight of his heart. He, being white, cannot hear the voice of those that died…. Tell me, Tuan,” he went on, looking at Lingard with curiosity—”tell me, Tuan, do you white people ever hear the voices of the invisible ones?”
“We do not,” answered Lingard, “because those that we cannot see do not speak.”
“Never speak! And never complain with sounds that are not words?” exclaimed Babalatchi, doubtingly. “It may be so—or your ears are dull. We Malays hear many sounds near the places where men are buried. To-night I heard … Yes, even I have heard…. I do not want to hear any more,” he added, nervously. “Perhaps I was wrong when I … There are things I regret. The trouble was heavy in his heart when he died. Sometimes I think I was wrong …but I do not want to hear the complaint of invisible lips. Therefore I go, Tuan. Let the unquiet spirit speak to his enemy the white man who knows not fear, or love, or mercy—knows nothing but contempt and violence. I have been wrong! I have! Hai! Hai!”
He stood for awhile with his elbow in the palm of his left hand, the fingers of the other over his lips as if to stifle the expression of inconvenient remorse; then, after glancing at the torch, burnt out nearly to its end, he moved towards the wall by the chest, fumbled about there and suddenly flung open a large shutter of attaps woven in a light framework of sticks. Lingard swung his legs quickly round the corner of his seat.
“Hallo!” he said, surprised.
The cloud of smoke stirred, and a slow wisp curled out through the new opening. The torch flickered, hissed, and went out, the glowing end falling on the mat, whence Babalatchi snatched it up and tossed it outside through the open square. It described a vanishing curve of red light, and lay below, shining feebly in the vast darkness. Babalatchi remained with his arm stretched out into the empty night.
“There,” he said, “you can see the white man’s courtyard, Tuan, and his house.”
“I can see nothing,” answered Lingard, putting his head through the shutter-hole. “It’s too dark.”
“Wait, Tuan,” urged Babalatchi. “You have been looking long at the burning torch. You will soon see. Mind the gun, Tuan. It is loaded.”
“There is no flint in it. You could not find a fire-stone for a hundred miles round this spot,” said Lingard, testily. “Foolish thing to load that gun.”
“I have a stone. I had it from a man wise and pious that lives in Menang Kabau. A very pious man—very good fire. He spoke words over that stone that make its sparks good. And the gun is good—carries straight and far. Would carry from here to the door of the white man’s house, I believe, Tuan.”
“Tida apa. Never mind your gun,” muttered Lingard, peering into the formless darkness. “Is that the house—that black thing over there?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered Babalatchi; “that is his house. He lives there by the will of Abdulla, and shall live there till … From where you stand, Tuan, you can look over the fence and across the courtyard straight at the door—at the door from which he comes out every morning, looking like a man that had seen Jehannum in his sleep.”
Lingard drew his head in. Babalatchi touched his shoulder with a groping hand.
“Wait a little, Tuan. Sit still. The morning is not far off now—a morning without sun after a night without stars. But there will be light enough to see the man who said not many days ago that he alone has made you less than a child in Sambir.”
He felt a slight tremor under his hand, but took it off directly and began feeling all over the lid of the chest, behind Lingard’s back, for the gun.
“What are you at?” said Lingard, impatiently. “You do worry about that rotten gun. You had better get a light.”