They of my household brought a white sheet, and
I began to dig a grave in the hut in which he died. She mourned aloud.
The white man came to the doorway and shouted. He was angry. Angry with
her because she beat her breast, and tore her hair, and mourned with
shrill cries as a woman should. Do you understand what I say, Tuan?
That white man came inside the hut with great fury, and took her by the
shoulder, and dragged her out. Yes, Tuan. I saw Omar dead, and I saw her
at the feet of that white dog who has deceived me. I saw his face grey,
like the cold mist of the morning; I saw his pale eyes looking down at
Omar's daughter beating her head on the ground at his feet. At the feet
of him who is Abdulla's slave. Yes, he lives by Abdulla's will. That is
why I held my hand while I saw all this. I held my hand because we are
now under the flag of the Orang Blanda, and Abdulla can speak into the
ears of the great. We must not have any trouble with white men. Abdulla
has spoken--and I must obey."
"That's it, is it?" growled Lingard in his moustache. Then in Malay, "It
seems that you are angry, O Babalatchi!"
"No; I am not angry, Tuan," answered Babalatchi, descending from the
insecure heights of his indignation into the insincere depths of safe
humility.
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