These girls were the wives of the Malay Indians. There seemed more wives than husbands knocking about, but that is explained by the fact that the creed of the Great Mecca Prophet allowed a man four wives to go on with ere he reached Elysium.
On a dais sat four aged, pock-marked marabouts reading the Koran. Their long beards pointed ever and anon to the cavern’s roof as some holy simile came from their lips.
As Waylao gazed with astonishment on the scene, a swarthy old Indian mongrel, under the influence of liquor, prostrated himself before her. Abduh gave him a nudge in the ribs with his boot and the old roué at once ceased pouring forth praises to the virtues of Mohammed’s beard.
“O mine Ayishah, O beautiful Marah, drink!” whispered the alluring voice of Waylao’s Oriental hubby. The girl’s head swam with fear. She had already repented coming to that hell. The sights that she witnessed reminded her of all that she had thrown aside for the sake of her infatuation. The heaven that the great Potter had mixed in her own elemental clay blushed to her throat’s dusky whiteness. The natural beauty of the girl’s face was intensified by the half-shrinking appeal of her eyes and expression. To see her standing there with the bit of pink ribbon fluttering at her throat, the hibiscus flowers in her pretty hair, must have made even the engrossed cut-throats at the card-tables stare for a moment and forget their tricks.
The sight of those dancing, full-blooded Marquesan girls on that pae-pae sickened her. Nor was it to be wondered at. Those tawny figures of perfect grace swayed their limbs with pride, yes, surveyed their own symmetrical proportions as the brass leg bangles jingled and the glass jewels flashed as their limbs swung roofward in response to the encores of Islamic delight.
Abduh’s voice pleaded passionately for his wishes. Indeed Waylao recovered so much that she even smiled at the admiration that was so evident in the eyes of the men about her.
“Marhabba!” (“Welcome!”) cried those young Islamic knuts as they stood up from their gaming tables, threw their shoulders back, screwed their heads sideways and surveyed the comely half-caste girl. Some went too far. Abduh saw the look of realisation leap into her eyes. She looked terrified.
“Something must be done at once: this will never do,” was his mental reflection.
“Drink, Marah!” The voice was insinuating and sweet. Hardly knowing what she did, Waylao let the innocent-looking coco-nut-shell goblet linger at her lips. Then she gazed helplessly at his masterful eyes, half in wonder. The jovial yellow boys from the Malay Archipelago, and the Sudan and Calcutta reprobates clinked their mugs. “Allah be with thee!” they murmured.
Somehow even their voices were hushed. It almost seemed that even they saw the shame of it all, that so fair a creature should fall into the spider-like clutch of that abomination.