Everything looked at its best in the pure air and under the brilliant sky; and Hilton and Chumbley were on their way to meet Mr Harley, who, now that Helen Perowne had been pronounced quite out of danger, had come down with a lighter heart to be present at the trial of the Malay chief Murad, who was to be tried by a jury of his fellow-countrymen for his treachery to an English lady, and for firing upon a vessel bearing the English flag.
“Not a bad place this, Chum, old fellow,” said Hilton. “I could stay a month with comfort.”
“Yes, so could I,” said Chumbley, lazily; “but I want to get back.”
“What for?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” was the reply. “I say, look at that Malay lady; she isn’t unlike the Inche Maida, is she?”
“H’m, no: something like. I say, though, old fellow, I don’t feel very easy about that affair. It hardly seems just that that woman should get off scot-free!”
“Nonsense: stuff, man. Let the poor body rest. Why, how ungallant you are! She fell in love with you, and wanted to marry you!”
“Very condescending of her, I’m sure,” said Hilton. “But really, I think I shall tell Harley that she captured us. He believes Murad was at the bottom of it all.”
“I beg you will do nothing of the kind!” said Chumbley, firing up. “I shall take it as a personal affront if you do. You promised me you would not.”
“Why, hallo! Is that you, Chum? You haven’t taken a fancy to the woman, have you?”