“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.