On the point of land in a little clear space lay the body of the stranger
just hauled out from amongst the logs. On one side stood Babalatchi, his
chin resting on the head of his staff and his one eye gazing steadily at
the shapeless mass of broken limbs, torn flesh, and bloodstained rags. As
Almayer burst through the ring of horrified spectators, Mrs. Almayer
threw her own head-veil over the upturned face of the drowned man, and,
squatting by it, with another mournful howl, sent a shiver through the
now silent crowd. Mahmat, dripping wet, turned to Almayer, eager to tell
his tale.
In the first moment of reaction from the anguish of his fear the sunshine
seemed to waver before Almayer's eyes, and he listened to words spoken
around him without comprehending their meaning. When, by a strong effort
of will, he regained the possession of his senses, Mahmat was saying--
"That is the way, Tuan. His sarong was caught in the broken branch, and
he hung with his head under water. When I saw what it was I did not want
it here. I wanted it to get clear and drift away. Why should we bury a
stranger in the midst of our houses for his ghost to frighten our women
and children? Have we not enough ghosts about this place?"
A murmur of approval interrupted him here.
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