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"You threaten me," said Willems, indistinctly.
"I, Tuan!" exclaimed Babalatchi, with a slight suspicion of irony in the
affected surprise of his tone. "I, Tuan? Who spoke of death? Was it
I? No! I spoke of life only. Only of life. Of a long life for a lonely
man!"
They stood with the fire between them, both silent, both aware, each
in his own way, of the importance of the passing minutes. Babalatchi's
fatalism gave him only an insignificant relief in his suspense, because
no fatalism can kill the thought of the future, the desire of success,
the pain of waiting for the disclosure of the immutable decrees of
Heaven. Fatalism is born of the fear of failure, for we all believe that
we carry success in our own hands, and we suspect that our hands are
weak. Babalatchi looked at Willems and congratulated himself upon his
ability to manage that white man. There was a pilot for Abdulla--a
victim to appease Lingard's anger in case of any mishap. He would take
good care to put him forward in everything. In any case let the white
men fight it out amongst themselves.


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