"
"You came here because of the white man's daughter," retorted Lakamba,
quickly. "Your refuge was with your father, the Rajah of Bali, the Son
of Heaven, the 'Anak Agong' himself. What am I to protect great princes?
Only yesterday I planted rice in a burnt clearing; to-day you say I hold
your life in my hand."
Babalatchi glanced at his master. "No man can escape his fate," he
murmured piously. "When love enters a man's heart he is like a
child--without any understanding. Be merciful, Lakamba," he added,
twitching the corner of the Rajah's sarong warningly.
Lakamba snatched away the skirt of the sarong angrily. Under the dawning
comprehension of intolerable embarrassments caused by Dain's return to
Sambir he began to lose such composure as he had been, till then, able to
maintain; and now he raised his voice loudly above the whistling of the
wind and the patter of rain on the roof in the hard squall passing over
the house.
"You came here first as a trader with sweet words and great promises,
asking me to look the other way while you worked your will on the white
man there. And I did. What do you want now? When I was young I fought.
Now I am old, and want peace. It is easier for me to have you killed
than to fight the Dutch.
Pages:
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116