"Why don't you go to the Rajah?" she screamed. "Why do you go back to
those Dyaks in the great forest? They should be killed. You cannot kill
them, you cannot; but our Rajah's men are brave! You tell the Rajah
where the old white man's treasure is. Our Rajah is good! He is our
very grandfather, Datu Besar! He will kill those wretched Dyaks, and you
shall have half the treasure. Oh, Kaspar, tell where the treasure is!
Tell me! Tell me out of the old man's surat where you read so often at
night."
On those occasions Almayer sat with rounded shoulders bending to the
blast of this domestic tempest, accentuating only each pause in the
torrent of his wife's eloquence by an angry growl, "There is no treasure!
Go away, woman!" Exasperated by the sight of his patiently bent back,
she would at last walk round so as to face him across the table, and
clasping her robe with one hand she stretched the other lean arm and claw-
like hand to emphasise, in a passion of anger and contempt, the rapid
rush of scathing remarks and bitter cursings heaped on the head of the
man unworthy to associate with brave Malay chiefs. It ended generally by
Almayer rising slowly, his long pipe in hand, his face set into a look of
inward pain, and walking away in silence.
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