“My good fellow,” said the doctor, sadly, as he laid his hand upon the Malay’s shoulder, “you do not understand Englishmen.”
“Yes, yes, I do,” cried the Malay. “I like—I love Englishmen, I was servant to the young chief Ali before the sultan had him krissed.”
“Young Ali krissed?” cried the doctor.
“Yes, he was too much friends with the Englishmen, and made the sultan jealous.”
“And the wretch had that brave, noble young fellow killed?”
“Yes,” said the Malay, sadly. “His father, the Tumongong, prayed upon his knees that the brave boy’s life might be spared, and offered to send him out of the country. But the sultan laughed, and said that the young chief would come back again with a swarm of English soldiers, and seize the jewels, and put him to death, and make himself sultan. Then the Tumongong swore an oath that Ali should never come back, and went down on his face before Sultan Hamet; but the sultan drew his kris and pricked him with it in the shoulder, and told him that he should die if he named his son again.”
“The villain! That brave, noble young fellow, too!” said the doctor, excitedly.
“Yes; he was so brave and handsome,” cried the Malay. “I loved him, but I was obliged to hide it all, for if I had spoken one word they would have krissed me, and thrown me into the river. So I had to be silent; but when they wanted some one to go with you I offered, and they said ‘Yes’ because I could speak English, and the sultan gave me my orders.”
“And what were they?” said the doctor, sharply.
“To wait till to-night, and then lead you out of the jungle if you did not want to go, and stab you with my kris.”