Volume Two—Chapter Six.
A Prince’s Anger.
The merchant stared in the young Rajah’s convulsed face without speaking, and Murad exclaimed:
“I had heard news, and was coming down. Then came the messengers; but tell me,” he cried, “I cannot bear it! This is not true?”
Mr Perowne gazed fixedly in the dark, lurid eyes before him, as if fascinated by their power, and then said sternly:
“It is quite true, sir; quite true.”
“No, no!” cried the Malay Rajah, excitedly, “not true that she is gone; not true that she cannot be found?”
“Yes, sir,” repeated the merchant again, in a low, troubled voice. “She was taken from us last night.”
The Rajah uttered some words in his own tongue that sounded like a passionate wail, as he staggered back, as if struck heavily, reeled, clutched at the nearest person to save himself, and then fell with a crash upon the floor.
The little party assembled crowded round the prostrate man; but at a word from Dr Bolter they drew back, and he went down on one knee beside the young man to loosen his collar.
“A little more air. Keep back, please!” said the doctor, sharply. “Mary, a glass of water.”
As Mrs Bolter filled a glass from a carafe upon the sideboard, the doctor took a bottle of strong salts offered by one of the ladies present, and held it beneath the young man’s nostrils, but without the slightest effect.
Then the water was handed to the doctor, who liberally used it about the young Prince’s face, as the Resident drew near and gazed upon the prostrate figure, keenly noting the clayey hue of the face and the great drops of dank perspiration that stood upon the brow.
“What is it, doctor?” he whispered.
“Fainting—over-excitement,” replied Dr Bolter. “He’s coming round.”
The fact was beginning to be patent to all, for a change was coming over the young man’s aspect, and he began to mutter impatiently as the drops of water were sprinkled upon his face, opening his eyes at last and gazing about him in a puzzled way, as if he could not comprehend his position.
Then his memory seemed to come back with a flash, and he started up into a sitting position, muttered a few Malay words in a quick, angry manner, sprang to his feet, and then, with his eyes flashing, he snatched his kris from the band of his sarong, showing his teeth and standing defiant, ready to attack some enemy with the flame-shaped blade that was dully gleaming in his hand.
“Come, Rajah,” said the doctor, soothingly, “be calm, my dear sir. You are among friends.”
“Friends!” he cried, hoarsely. “No: enemies! You have let him take her away, I know,” he hissed between his teeth; “but you shall tell me. Who else has gone?”
“Captain Hilton,” said the doctor.
“Yes, I was sure,” hissed the Malay. “He was always there at her side. I was ref—fused; but I cannot sit still and see her stolen away by another, and I will have revenge—I will have revenge!”
The Malay Prince’s aspect told plainly enough that he would have sprung like a wild beast at his enemy’s throat had he been present; and saving Mrs Bolter and Grey, who stood holding her hand, the ladies crowded together, one or two shrieking with alarm as the Resident quietly advanced to the young Malay.
“Put up your weapon, sir,” he said firmly. “We are not savages. Recollect that you are amongst civilised people now.”
The Rajah turned upon him with so fierce and feline a look that Grey Stuart turned paler than she already was, and pressed Mrs Bolter’s hand spasmodically; but Harley did not shrink, he merely fixed the young man as it were with his eyes, before whose steady gaze the sullen, angry glare of the young Prince sank, and he stood as if turned to stone.
“Yes,” he said, in a guttural voice; “you are right;” and slowly replacing his kris in its sheath, he covered the hilt with his silken plaid before standing there with his brows knit, and the veins in his temples standing out as if he were engaged in a heavy struggle to master the savage spirit that had gained the ascendant.
“That is better,” said the Resident, quietly. “Now we can talk like sensible men.”
“Yes,” replied the Rajah; “but it is hard—very hard. It masters me, and I feel that I cannot bear it. You know what I have suffered, and how I fought it down. Mr Harley, Mr Perowne, did I not act like an English gentleman would have done?”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr Perowne, hastily.
“I tried so hard that I might,” he whispered. “I was born a Malay; but I am trying to become more like you. I thought I had mastered everything; but when I hear this news it is too much for me, and—Mr Harley—doctor—give me something to make me calm, or I shall go mad.”
He turned away and stood for a few moments with his back to them, while the party assembled whispered their thoughts till the young man turned once more, and they saw that his face was calm and impassive, as if no furious storm of rage had just been agitating its surface.
“What are you going to do?” he said, in a low, deep voice, gazing from Mr Perowne to the Resident and back again.
“Search, sir, until we have found the lady,” said the latter, quietly.
“I will help,” said the Rajah; whose eyes emitted a flash that told of the rage in his heart.
“Thank you,” said the Resident, quietly.
“You will pursue them?” continued the Rajah. “Tell me, by your laws do you kill this man for what he has done?”
“We do not think there is any need of pursuit, sir,” replied Mr Harley, quietly; “we fear that there has been an accident.”
“I have brought down two nagas, and two smaller boats,” cried the Rajah, eagerly. “There are a hundred of my people waiting. Shall I send them to follow, or will you give them your commands? They are your slaves until this is done.”
The Resident stood thinking for a minute or two, and the Rajah turned from him impatiently.
“We lose time!” he cried, angrily. “Mr Perowne, you do not speak. Tell me—you are her father—what shall I do?”
Mr Perowne held out his hand, which the Rajah seized.
“Thank you, Rajah,” he said simply; “but we must be guided by wisdom in what we do. Mr Harley will speak directly. He is trying to help us. I cannot say more,” he faltered. “I am crushed and helpless under this blow.”
“Tut, mon! don’t give way!” whispered old Stuart, going to his side. “Keep a stout hairt and all will be well.”
A couple of hours of indecision passed away, for the coming of the Rajah had thrown them off the track. They had had one scent to follow, and, however blindly, they were about to attempt it, but were now thrown back upon two other lines—the one being the suggestion of an accident; the other of elopement.
The hot day was wearing on, and the boatmen were returning boat by boat, but without the slightest information, not even a vague suggestion upon which hope could be hung. Still, nothing more had been done—nothing seemed possible under the circumstances; and a general feeling of despondency was gathering over the little community, when a new suspicion dawned in the Resident’s mind, and he blamed himself for not having thought of it before.
The suspicion had but a slight basis, still it was enough; and eager as he was to find something to which he could cling, Neil Harley felt for the moment glad of the mental suggestion, and felt that all idea of some terrible boat accident might be set aside, for at last he had found the clue.