CHAPTER XI.
In the middle of a shadowless square of moonlight, shining on a
smooth and level expanse of young rice-shoots, a little
shelter-hut perched on high posts, the pile of brushwood near by
and the glowing embers of a fire with a man stretched before it,
seemed very small and as if lost in the pale green iridescence
reflected from the ground. On three sides of the clearing,
appearing very far away in the deceptive light, the big trees of
the forest, lashed together with manifold bonds by a mass of
tangled creepers, looked down at the growing young life at their
feet with the sombre resignation of giants that had lost faith in
their strength. And in the midst of them the merciless creepers
clung to the big trunks in cable-like coils, leaped from tree to
tree, hung in thorny festoons from the lower boughs, and, sending
slender tendrils on high to seek out the smallest branches,
carried death to their victims in an exulting riot of silent
destruction.
On the fourth side, following the curve of the bank of that
branch of the Pantai that formed the only access to the clearing,
ran a black line of young trees, bushes, and thick second growth,
unbroken save for a small gap chopped out in one place. At that
gap began the narrow footpath leading from the water's edge to
the grass-built shelter used by the night watchers when the
ripening crop had to be protected from the wild pigs. The
pathway ended at the foot of the piles on which the hut was
built, in a circular space covered with ashes and bits of burnt
wood. In the middle of that space, by the dim fire, lay Dain.
He turned over on his side with an impatient sigh, and, pillowing
his head on his bent arm, lay quietly with his face to the dying
fire. The glowing embers shone redly in a small circle, throwing
a gleam into his wide-open eyes, and at every deep breath the
fine white ash of bygone fires rose in a light cloud before his
parted lips, and danced away from the warm glow into the
moonbeams pouring down upon Bulangi's clearing. His body was
weary with the exertion of the past few days, his mind more weary
still with the strain of solitary waiting for his fate. Never
before had he felt so helpless. He had heard the report of the
gun fired on board the launch, and he knew that his life was in
untrustworthy hands, and that his enemies were very near. During
the slow hours of the afternoon he roamed about on the edge of
the forest, or, hiding in the bushes, watched the creek with
unquiet eyes for some sign of danger. He feared not death, yet
he desired ardently to live, for life to him was Nina. She had
promised to come, to follow him, to share his danger and his
splendour. But with her by his side he cared not for danger, and
without her there could be no splendour and no joy in existence.
Crouching in his shady hiding-place, he closed his eyes, trying
to evoke the gracious and charming image of the white figure that
for him was the beginning and the end of life. With eyes shut
tight, his teeth hard set, he tried in a great effort of
passionate will to keep his hold on that vision of supreme
delight. In vain! His heart grew heavy as the figure of Nina
faded away to be replaced by another vision this time--a vision
of armed men, of angry faces, of glittering arms--and he seemed
to hear the hum of excited and triumphant voices as they
discovered him in his hiding-place. Startled by the vividness of
his fancy, he would open his eyes, and, leaping out into the
sunlight, resume his aimless wanderings around the clearing. As
he skirted in his weary march the edge of the forest he glanced
now and then into its dark shade, so enticing in its deceptive
appearance of coolness, so repellent with its unrelieved gloom,
where lay, entombed and rotting, countless generations of trees,
and where their successors stood as if mourning, in dark green
foliage, immense and helpless, awaiting their turn. Only the
parasites seemed to live there in a sinuous rush upwards into the
air and sunshine, feeding on the dead and the dying alike, and
crowning their victims with pink and blue flowers that gleamed
amongst the boughs, incongruous and cruel, like a strident and
mocking note in the solemn harmony of the doomed trees.
A man could hide there, thought Dain, as he approached a place
where the creepers had been torn and hacked into an archway that
might have been the beginning of a path. As he bent down to look
through he heard angry grunting, and a sounder of wild pig
crashed away in the undergrowth. An acrid smell of damp earth
and of decaying leaves took him by the throat, and he drew back
with a scared face, as if he had been touched by the breath of
Death itself. The very air seemed dead in there--heavy and
stagnating, poisoned with the corruption of countless ages. He
went on, staggering on his way, urged by the nervous restlessness
that made him feel tired yet caused him to loathe the very idea
of immobility and repose. Was he a wild man to hide in the woods
and perhaps be killed there--in the darkness--where there was no
room to breathe? He would wait for his enemies in the sunlight,
where he could see the sky and feel the breeze. He knew how a
Malay chief should die. The sombre and desperate fury, that
peculiar inheritance of his race, took possession of him, and he
glared savagely across the clearing towards the gap in the bushes
by the riverside. They would come from there. In imagination he
saw them now. He saw the bearded faces and the white jackets of
the officers, the light on the levelled barrels of the rifles.
What is the bravery of the greatest warrior before the firearms
in the hand of a slave? He would walk toward them with a smiling
face, with his hands held out in a sign of submission till he was
very near them. He would speak friendly words--come nearer
yet--yet nearer--so near that they could touch him with their
hands and stretch them out to make him a captive. That would be
the time: with a shout and a leap he would be in the midst of
them, kriss in hand, killing, killing, killing, and would die
with the shouts of his enemies in his ears, their warm blood
spurting before his eyes.
Carried away by his excitement, he snatched the kriss hidden in
his sarong, and, drawing a long breath, rushed forward, struck at
the empty air, and fell on his face. He lay as if stunned in the
sudden reaction from his exaltation, thinking that, even if he
died thus gloriously, it would have to be before he saw Nina.
Better so. If he saw her again he felt that death would be too
terrible. With horror he, the descendant of Rajahs and of
conquerors, had to face the doubt of his own bravery. His desire
of life tormented him in a paroxysm of agonising remorse. He had
not the courage to stir a limb. He had lost faith in himself,
and there was nothing else in him of what makes a man. The
suffering remained, for it is ordered that it should abide in the
human body even to the last breath, and fear remained. Dimly he
could look into the depths of his passionate love, see its
strength and its weakness, and felt afraid.
The sun went down slowly. The shadow of the western forest
marched over the clearing, covered the man's scorched shoulders
with its cool mantle, and went on hurriedly to mingle with the
shadows of other forests on the eastern side. The sun lingered
for a while amongst the light tracery of the higher branches, as
if in friendly reluctance to abandon the body stretched in the
green paddy-field. Then Dain, revived by the cool of the evening
breeze, sat up and stared round him. As he did so the sun dipped
sharply, as if ashamed of being detected in a sympathising
attitude, and the clearing, which during the day was all light,
became suddenly all darkness, where the fire gleamed like an eye.
Dain walked slowly towards the creek, and, divesting himself of
his torn sarong, his only garment, entered the water cautiously.
He had had nothing to eat that day, and had not dared show
himself in daylight by the water-side to drink. Now, as he swam
silently, he swallowed a few mouthfuls of water that lapped about
his lips. This did him good, and he walked with greater
confidence in himself and others as he returned towards the fire.
Had he been betrayed by Lakamba all would have been over by this.
He made up a big blaze, and while it lasted dried himself, and
then lay down by the embers. He could not sleep, but he felt a
great numbness in all his limbs. His restlessness was gone, and
he was content to lay still, measuring the time by watching the
stars that rose in endless succession above the forests, while
the slight puffs of wind under the cloudless sky seemed to fan
their twinkle into a greater brightness. Dreamily he assured
himself over and over again that she would come, till the
certitude crept into his heart and filled him with a great peace.
Yes, when the next day broke, they would be together on the great
blue sea that was like life--away from the forests that were like
death. He murmured the name of Nina into the silent space with a
tender smile: this seemed to break the spell of stillness, and
far away by the creek a frog croaked loudly as if in answer. A
chorus of loud roars and plaintive calls rose from the mud along
the line of bushes. He laughed heartily; doubtless it was their
love-song. He felt affectionate towards the frogs and listened,
pleased with the noisy life near him.
When the moon peeped above the trees he felt the old impatience
and the old restlessness steal over him. Why was she so late?
True, it was a long way to come with a single paddle. With what
skill and what endurance could those small hands manage a heavy
paddle! It was very wonderful--such small hands, such soft
little palms that knew how to touch his cheek with a feel lighter
than the fanning of a butterfly's wing. Wonderful! He lost
himself lovingly in the contemplation of this tremendous mystery,
and when he looked at the moon again it had risen a hand's
breadth above the trees. Would she come? He forced himself to
lay still, overcoming the impulse to rise and rush round the
clearing again. He turned this way and that; at last, quivering
with the effort, he lay on his back, and saw her face among the
stars looking down on him.
The croaking of frogs suddenly ceased. With the watchfulness of
a hunted man Dain sat up, listening anxiously, and heard several
splashes in the water as the frogs took rapid headers into the
creek. He knew that they had been alarmed by something, and
stood up suspicious and attentive. A slight grating noise, then
the dry sound as of two pieces of wood struck against each other.
Somebody was about to land! He took up an armful of brushwood,
and, without taking his eyes from the path, held it over the
embers of his fire. He waited, undecided, and saw something
gleam amongst the bushes; then a white figure came out of the
shadows and seemed to float towards him in the pale light. His
heart gave a great leap and stood still, then went on shaking his
frame in furious beats. He dropped the brushwood upon the
glowing coals, and had an impression of shouting her name--of
rushing to meet her; yet he emitted no sound, he stirred not an
inch, but he stood silent and motionless like chiselled bronze
under the moonlight that streamed over his naked shoulders. As
he stood still, fighting with his breath, as if bereft of his
senses by the intensity of his delight, she walked up to him with
quick, resolute steps, and, with the appearance of one about to
leap from a dangerous height, threw both her arms round his neck
with a sudden gesture. A small blue gleam crept amongst the dry
branches, and the crackling of reviving fire was the only sound
as they faced each other in the speechless emotion of that
meeting; then the dry fuel caught at once, and a bright hot flame
shot upwards in a blaze as high as their heads, and in its light
they saw each other's eyes.
Neither of them spoke. He was regaining his senses in a slight
tremor that ran upwards along his rigid body and hung about his
trembling lips. She drew back her head and fastened her eyes on
his in one of those long looks that are a woman's most terrible
weapon; a look that is more stirring than the closest touch, and
more dangerous than the thrust of a dagger, because it also whips
the soul out of the body, but leaves the body alive and helpless,
to be swayed here and there by the capricious tempests of passion
and desire; a look that enwraps the whole body, and that
penetrates into the innermost recesses of the being, bringing
terrible defeat in the delirious uplifting of accomplished
conquest. It has the same meaning for the man of the forests and
the sea as for the man threading the paths of the more dangerous
wilderness of houses and streets. Men that had felt in their
breasts the awful exultation such a look awakens become mere
things of to-day--which is paradise; forget yesterday--which was
suffering; care not for to-morrow--which may be perdition. They
wish to live under that look for ever. It is the look of woman's
surrender.
He understood, and, as if suddenly released from his invisible
bonds, fell at her feet with a shout of joy, and, embracing her
knees, hid his head in the folds of her dress, murmuring
disjointed words of gratitude and love. Never before had he felt
so proud as now, when at the feet of that woman that half
belonged to his enemies. Her fingers played with his hair in an
absent-minded caress as she stood absorbed in thought. The thing
was done. Her mother was right. The man was her slave. As she
glanced down at his kneeling form she felt a great pitying
tenderness for that man she was used to call--even in her
thoughts--the master of life. She lifted her eyes and looked
sadly at the southern heavens under which lay the path of their
lives--her own, and that man's at her feet. Did he not say
himself is that she was the light of his life? She would be his
light and his wisdom; she would be his greatness and his
strength; yet hidden from the eyes of all men she would be, above
all, his only and lasting weakness. A very woman! In the
sublime vanity of her kind she was thinking already of moulding a
god from the clay at her feet. A god for others to worship. She
was content to see him as he was now, and to feel him quiver at
the slightest touch of her light fingers. And while her eyes
looked sadly at the southern stars a faint smile seemed to be
playing about her firm lips. Who can tell in the fitful light of
a camp fire? It might have been a smile of triumph, or of
conscious power, or of tender pity, or, perhaps, of love.
She spoke softly to him, and he rose to his feet, putting his arm
round her in quiet consciousness of his ownership; she laid her
head on his shoulder with a sense of defiance to all the world in
the encircling protection of that arm. He was hers with all his
qualities and all his faults. His strength and his courage, his
recklessness and his daring, his simple wisdom and his savage
cunning--all were hers. As they passed together out of the red
light of the fire into the silver shower of rays that fell upon
the clearing he bent his head over her face, and she saw in his
eyes the dreamy intoxication of boundless felicity from the close
touch of her slight figure clasped to his side. With a
rhythmical swing of their bodies they walked through the light
towards the outlying shadows of the forests that seemed to guard
their happiness in solemn immobility. Their forms melted in the
play of light and shadow at the foot of the big trees, but the
murmur of tender words lingered over the empty clearing, grew
faint, and died out. A sigh as of immense sorrow passed over the
land in the last effort of the dying breeze, and in the deep
silence which succeeded, the earth and the heavens were suddenly
hushed up in the mournful contemplation of human love and human
blindness.
They walked slowly back to the fire. He made for her a seat out
of the dry branches, and, throwing himself down at her feet, lay
his head in her lap and gave himself up to the dreamy delight of
the passing hour. Their voices rose and fell, tender or animated
as they spoke of their love and of their future. She, with a few
skilful words spoken from time to time, guided his thoughts, and
he let his happiness flow in a stream of talk passionate and
tender, grave or menacing, according to the mood which she
evoked. He spoke to her of his own island, where the gloomy
forests and the muddy rivers were unknown. He spoke of its
terraced fields, of the murmuring clear rills of sparkling water
that flowed down the sides of great mountains, bringing life to
the land and joy to its tillers. And he spoke also of the
mountain peak that rising lonely above the belt of trees knew the
secrets of the passing clouds, and was the dwelling-place of the
mysterious spirit of his race, of the guardian genius of his
house. He spoke of vast horizons swept by fierce winds that
whistled high above the summits of burning mountains. He spoke
of his forefathers that conquered ages ago the island of which he
was to be the future ruler. And then as, in her interest, she
brought her face nearer to his, he, touching lightly the thick
tresses of her long hair, felt a sudden impulse to speak to her
of the sea he loved so well; and he told her of its never-ceasing
voice, to which he had listened as a child, wondering at its
hidden meaning that no living man has penetrated yet; of its
enchanting glitter; of its senseless and capricious fury; how its
surface was for ever changing, and yet always enticing, while its
depths were for ever the same, cold and cruel, and full of the
wisdom of destroyed life. He told her how it held men slaves of
its charm for a lifetime, and then, regardless of their devotion,
swallowed them up, angry at their fear of its mystery, which it
would never disclose, not even to those that loved it most.
While he talked, Nina's head had been gradually sinking lower,
and her face almost touched his now. Her hair was over his eyes,
her breath was on his forehead, her arms were about his body. No
two beings could be closer to each other, yet she guessed rather
than understood the meaning of his last words that came out after
a slight hesitation in a faint murmur, dying out imperceptibly
into a profound and significant silence: "The sea, O Nina, is
like a woman's heart."
She closed his lips with a sudden kiss, and answered in a steady
voice--
"But to the men that have no fear, O master of my life, the sea
is ever true."
Over their heads a film of dark, thread-like clouds, looking like
immense cobwebs drifting under the stars, darkened the sky with
the presage of the coming thunderstorm. From the invisible hills
the first distant rumble of thunder came in a prolonged roll
which, after tossing about from hill to hill, lost itself in the
forests of the Pantai. Dain and Nina stood up, and the former
looked at the sky uneasily.
"It is time for Babalatchi to be here," he said. "The night is
more than half gone. Our road is long, and a bullet travels
quicker than the best canoe."
"He will be here before the moon is hidden behind the clouds,"
said Nina. "I heard a splash in the water," she added. "Did you
hear it too?"
"Alligator," answered Dain shortly, with a careless glance
towards the creek. "The darker the night," he continued, "the
shorter will be our road, for then we could keep in the current
of the main stream, but if it is light--even no more than now--we
must follow the small channels of sleeping water, with nothing to
help our paddles."
"Dain," interposed Nina, earnestly, "it was no alligator. I
heard the bushes rustling near the landing-place."
"Yes," said Dain, after listening awhile. "It cannot be
Babalatchi, who would come in a big war canoe, and openly. Those
that are coming, whoever they are, do not wish to make much
noise. But you have heard, and now I can see," he went on
quickly. "It is but one man. Stand behind me, Nina. If he is a
friend he is welcome; if he is an enemy you shall see him die."
He laid his hand on his kriss, and awaited the approach of his
unexpected visitor. The fire was burning very low, and small
clouds--precursors of the storm--crossed the face of the moon in
rapid succession, and their flying shadows darkened the clearing.
He could not make out who the man might be, but he felt uneasy at
the steady advance of the tall figure walking on the path with a
heavy tread, and hailed it with a command to stop. The man
stopped at some little distance, and Dain expected him to speak,
but all he could hear was his deep breathing. Through a break in
the flying clouds a sudden and fleeting brightness descended upon
the clearing. Before the darkness closed in again, Dain saw a
hand holding some glittering object extended towards him, heard
Nina's cry of "Father!" and in an instant the girl was between
him and Almayer's revolver. Nina's loud cry woke up the echoes
of the sleeping woods, and the three stood still as if waiting
for the return of silence before they would give expression to
their various feelings. At the appearance of Nina, Almayer's arm
fell by his side, and he made a step forward. Dain pushed the
girl gently aside.
"Am I a wild beast that you should try to kill me suddenly and in
the dark, Tuan Almayer?" said Dain, breaking the strained
silence. "Throw some brushwood on the fire," he went on,
speaking to Nina, "while I watch my white friend, lest harm
should come to you or to me, O delight of my heart!"
Almayer ground his teeth and raised his arm again. With a quick
bound Dain was at his side: there was a short scuffle, during
which one chamber of the revolver went off harmlessly, then the
weapon, wrenched out of Almayer's hand, whirled through the air
and fell in the bushes. The two men stood close together,
breathing hard. The replenished fire threw out an unsteady
circle of light and shone on the terrified face of Nina, who
looked at them with outstretched hands.
"Dain!" she cried out warningly, "Dain!"
He waved his hand towards her in a reassuring gesture, and,
turning to Almayer, said with great courtesy--
"Now we may talk, Tuan. It is easy to send out death, but can
your wisdom recall the life? She might have been harmed," he
continued, indicating Nina. "Your hand shook much; for myself I
was not afraid."
"Nina!" exclaimed Almayer, "come to me at once. What is this
sudden madness? What bewitched you? Come to your father, and
together we shall try to forget this horrible nightmare!"
He opened his arms with the certitude of clasping her to his
breast in another second. She did not move. As it dawned upon
him that she did not mean to obey he felt a deadly cold creep
into his heart, and, pressing the palms of his hands to his
temples, he looked down on the ground in mute despair. Dain took
Nina by the arm and led her towards her father.
"Speak to him in the language of his people," he said. "He is
grieving--as who would not grieve at losing thee, my pearl!
Speak to him the last words he shall hear spoken by that voice,
which must be very sweet to him, but is all my life to me."
He released her, and, stepping back a few paces out of the circle
of light, stood in the darkness looking at them with calm
interest. The reflection of a distant flash of lightning lit up
the clouds over their heads, and was followed after a short
interval by the faint rumble of thunder, which mingled with
Almayer's voice as he began to speak.
"Do you know what you are doing? Do you know what is waiting for
you if you follow that man? Have you no pity for yourself? Do
you know that you shall be at first his plaything and then a
scorned slave, a drudge, and a servant of some new fancy of that
man?"
She raised her hand to stop him, and turning her head slightly,
asked--
"You hear this Dain! Is it true?"
"By all the gods!" came the impassioned answer from the
darkness-- "by heaven and earth, by my head and thine I swear:
this is a white man's lie. I have delivered my soul into your
hands for ever; I breathe with your breath, I see with your eyes,
I think with your mind, and I take you into my heart for ever."
"You thief!" shouted the exasperated Almayer.
A deep silence succeeded this outburst, then the voice of Dain
was heard again.
"Nay, Tuan," he said in a gentle tone, "that is not true also.
The girl came of her own will. I have done no more but to show
her my love like a man; she heard the cry of my heart, and she
came, and the dowry I have given to the woman you call your
wife."
Almayer groaned in his extremity of rage and shame. Nina laid
her hand lightly on his shoulder, and the contact, light as the
touch of a falling leaf, seemed to calm him. He spoke quickly,
and in English this time.
"Tell me," he said--"tell me, what have they done to you, your
mother and that man? What made you give yourself up to that
savage? For he is a savage. Between him and you there is a
barrier that nothing can remove. I can see in your eyes the look
of those who commit suicide when they are mad. You are mad.
Don't smile. It breaks my heart. If I were to see you drowning
before my eyes, and I without the power to help you, I could not
suffer a greater torment. Have you forgotten the teaching of so
many years?"
"No," she interrupted, "I remember it well. I remember how it
ended also. Scorn for scorn, contempt for contempt, hate for
hate. I am not of your race. Between your people and me there
is also a barrier that nothing can remove. You ask why I want to
go, and I ask you why I should stay."
He staggered as if struck in the face, but with a quick,
unhesitating grasp she caught him by the arm and steadied him.
"Why you should stay!" he repeated slowly, in a dazed manner, and
stopped short, astounded at the completeness of his misfortune.
"You told me yesterday," she went on again, "that I could not
understand or see your love for me: it is so. How can I? No
two human beings understand each other. They can understand but
their own voices. You wanted me to dream your dreams, to see
your own visions--the visions of life amongst the white faces of
those who cast me out from their midst in angry contempt. But
while you spoke I listened to the voice of my own self; then this
man came, and all was still; there was only the murmur of his
love. You call him a savage! What do you call my mother, your
wife?"
"Nina!" cried Almayer, "take your eyes off my face."
She looked down directly, but continued speaking only a little
above a whisper.
"In time," she went on, "both our voices, that man's and mine,
spoke together in a sweetness that was intelligible to our ears
only. You were speaking of gold then, but our ears were filled
with the song of our love, and we did not hear you. Then I found
that we could see through each other's eyes: that he saw things
that nobody but myself and he could see. We entered a land where
no one could follow us, and least of all you. Then I began to
live."
She paused. Almayer sighed deeply. With her eyes still fixed on
the ground she began speaking again.
"And I mean to live. I mean to follow him. I have been rejected
with scorn by the white people, and now I am a Malay! He took me
in his arms, he laid his life at my feet. He is brave; he will
be powerful, and I hold his bravery and his strength in my hand,
and I shall make him great. His name shall be remembered long
after both our bodies are laid in the dust. I love you no less
than I did before, but I shall never leave him, for without him I
cannot live."
"If he understood what you have said," answered Almayer,
scornfully, "he must be highly flattered. You want him as a tool
for some incomprehensible ambition of yours. Enough, Nina. If
you do not go down at once to the creek, where Ali is waiting
with my canoe, I shall tell him to return to the settlement and
bring the Dutch officers here. You cannot escape from this
clearing, for I have cast adrift your canoe. If the Dutch catch
this hero of yours they will hang him as sure as I stand here.
Now go."
He made a step towards his daughter and laid hold of her by the
shoulder, his other hand pointing down the path to the
landing-place.
"Beware!" exclaimed Dain; "this woman belongs to me!"
Nina wrenched herself free and looked straight at Almayer's angry
face.
"No, I will not go," she said with desperate energy. "If he dies
I shall die too!"
"You die!" said Almayer, contemptuously. "Oh, no! You shall
live a life of lies and deception till some other vagabond comes
along to sing; how did you say that? The song of love to you!
Make up your mind quickly."
He waited for a while, and then added meaningly--
"Shall I call out to Ali?"
"Call out," she answered in Malay, "you that cannot be true to
your own countrymen. Only a few days ago you were selling the
powder for their destruction; now you want to give up to them the
man that yesterday you called your friend. Oh, Dain," she said,
turning towards the motionless but attentive figure in the
darkness, "instead of bringing you life I bring you death, for he
will betray unless I leave you for ever!"
Dain came into the circle of light, and, throwing his arm around
Nina's neck, whispered in her ear--"I can kill him where he
stands, before a sound can pass his lips. For you it is to say
yes or no. Babalatchi cannot be far now."
He straightened himself up, taking his arm off her shoulder, and
confronted Almayer, who looked at them both with an expression of
concentrated fury,
"No!" she cried, clinging to Dain in wild alarm. "No! Kill me!
Then perhaps he will let you go. You do not know the mind of a
white man. He would rather see me dead than standing where I am.
Forgive me, your slave, but you must not." She fell at his feet
sobbing violently and repeating, "Kill me! Kill me!"
"I want you alive," said Almayer, speaking also in Malay, with
sombre calmness. "You go, or he hangs. Will you obey?"
Dain shook Nina off, and, making a sudden lunge, struck Almayer
full in the chest with the handle of his kriss, keeping the point
towards himself.
"Hai, look! It was easy for me to turn the point the other way,"
he said in his even voice. "Go, Tuan Putih," he added with
dignity. "I give you your life, my life, and her life. I am the
slave of this woman's desire, and she wills it so."
There was not a glimmer of light in the sky now, and the tops of
the trees were as invisible as their trunks, being lost in the
mass of clouds that hung low over the woods, the clearing, and
the river.
Every outline had disappeared in the intense blackness that
seemed to have destroyed everything but space. Only the fire
glimmered like a star forgotten in this annihilation of all
visible things, and nothing was heard after Dain ceased speaking
but the sobs of Nina, whom he held in his arms, kneeling beside
the fire. Almayer stood looking down at them in gloomy
thoughtfulness. As he was opening his lips to speak they were
startled by a cry of warning by the riverside, followed by the
splash of many paddles and the sound of voices.
"Babalatchi!" shouted Dain, lifting up Nina as he got upon his
feet quickly.
"Ada! Ada!" came the answer from the panting statesman who ran
up the path and stood amongst them. "Run to my canoe," he said
to Dain excitedly, without taking any notice of Almayer. "Run!
we must go. That woman has told them all!"
"What woman?" asked Dain, looking at Nina. Just then there was
only one woman in the whole world for him.
"The she-dog with white teeth; the seven times accursed slave of
Bulangi. She yelled at Abdulla's gate till she woke up all
Sambir. Now the white officers are coming, guided by her and
Reshid. If you want to live, do not look at me, but go!"
"How do you know this?" asked Almayer.
"Oh, Tuan! what matters how I know! I have only one eye, but I
saw lights in Abdulla's house and in his campong as we were
paddling past. I have ears, and while we lay under the bank I
have heard the messengers sent out to the white men's house."
"Will you depart without that woman who is my daughter?" said
Almayer, addressing Dain, while Babalatchi stamped with
impatience, muttering, "Run! Run at once!"
"No," answered Dain, steadily, "I will not go; to no man will I
abandon this woman."
"Then kill me and escape yourself," sobbed out Nina.
He clasped her close, looking at her tenderly, and whispered, "We
will never part, O Nina!"
"I shall not stay here any longer," broke in Babalatchi, angrily.
"This is great foolishness. No woman is worth a man's life. I
am an old man, and I know."
He picked up his staff, and, turning to go, looked at Dain as if
offering him his last chance of escape. But Dain's face was
hidden amongst Nina's black tresses, and he did not see this last
appealing glance.
Babalatchi vanished in the darkness. Shortly after his
disappearance they heard the war canoe leave the landing-place in
the swish of the numerous paddles dipped in the water together.
Almost at the same time Ali came up from the riverside, two
paddles on his shoulder.
"Our canoe is hidden up the creek, Tuan Almayer," he said, "in
the dense bush where the forest comes down to the water. I took
it there because I heard from Babalatchi's paddlers that the
white men are coming here."
"Wait for me there," said Almayer, "but keep the canoe hidden."
He remained silent, listening to Ali's footsteps, then turned to
Nina.
"Nina," he said sadly, "will you have no pity for me?"
There was no answer. She did not even turn her head, which was
pressed close to Dain's breast.
He made a movement as if to leave them and stopped. By the dim
glow of the burning-out fire he saw their two motionless figures.
The woman's back turned to him with the long black hair streaming
down over the white dress, and Dain's calm face looking at him
above her head.
"I cannot," he muttered to himself. After a long pause he spoke
again a little lower, but in an unsteady voice, "It would be too
great a disgrace. I am a white man." He broke down completely
there, and went on tearfully, "I am a white man, and of good
family. Very good family," he repeated, weeping bitterly. "It
would be a disgrace . . . all over the islands, . . . the only
white man on the east coast. No, it cannot be . . . white men
finding my daughter with this Malay. My daughter!" he cried
aloud, with a ring of despair in his voice.
He recovered his composure after a while and said distinctly--
"I will never forgive you, Nina--never! If you were to come back
to me now, the memory of this night would poison all my life. I
shall try to forget. I have no daughter. There used to be a
half-caste woman in my house, but she is going even now. You,
Dain, or whatever your name may be, I shall take you and that
woman to the island at the mouth of the river myself. Come with
me."
He led the way, following the bank as far as the forest. Ali
answered to his call, and, pushing their way through the dense
bush, they stepped into the canoe hidden under the overhanging
branches. Dain laid Nina in the bottom, and sat holding her head
on his knees. Almayer and Ali each took up a paddle. As they
were going to push out Ali hissed warningly. All listened.
In the great stillness before the bursting out of the
thunderstorm they could hear the sound of oars working regularly
in their row-locks. The sound approached steadily, and Dain,
looking through the branches, could see the faint shape of a big
white boat. A woman's voice said in a cautious tone--
"There is the place where you may land white men; a little higher
--there!"
The boat was passing them so close in the narrow creek that the
blades of the long oars nearly touched the canoe.
"Way enough! Stand by to jump on shore! He is alone and
unarmed," was the quiet order in a man's voice, and in Dutch.
Somebody else whispered: "I think I can see a glimmer of a fire
through the bush." And then the boat floated past them,
disappearing instantly in the darkness.
"Now," whispered Ali, eagerly, "let us push out and paddle away."
The little canoe swung into the stream, and as it sprung forward
in response to the vigorous dig of the paddles they could hear an
angry shout.
"He is not by the fire. Spread out, men, and search for him!"
Blue lights blazed out in different parts of the clearing, and
the shrill voice of a woman cried in accents of rage and pain--
"Too late! O senseless white men! He has escaped!"
