“Waste of blood, waste of life, and no good done, Tim,” said the Resident, sadly. “We are in God’s hands. I cannot see that we can stir.”
“Four of us and Mister Murray, if we could get at him,” mused Tim; “that makes foive, and they’re as many hundreds, and got their prahus and boats beside; but I don’t know. The old counthry looks a very shmall place on the map, but she could beat the world. Well, the masther has only got to spake, and I’ll foight for me misthress and my young lady as long as I can lift a fist.”
As the evening drew near, Tim comforted himself by examining and loading the guns and pistols that were in the house, and then replaced them, ready for use at a moment’s notice.
But when he had done, he shook his head sadly.
“It’s such a whishp of a place to fight in,” he said to himself. “Anny one could knock it all over wid a scaffold pole. Why, if it kim to a foight, the bastes could run underneath, and shtick their spears through the flure. An’ I’d like to get one crack at the head of the man I caught doing it.”
The dinner-time came, and Tim made another attempt to get the unhappy party to eat.
“And not a bit of fruit,” he muttered. “Wonder whether they’d let us get some.”
He went and spoke to one of the women who acted as servant, and she readily agreed to go and fetch what was necessary, catching up the second sarong worn by the Malay women as a veil, and used with the two ends of the long scarf-like article of attire sewn together.
With this over her head, she started off, and the guard now looked up sharply, but they had no orders to interfere and prevent one of the women from going out, and in less than a quarter of an hour she returned bearing a basket of mangosteens and bananas.
But it was all labour in vain; the dinner and dessert, so thoughtfully prepared, remained untouched, and the wine, cool and fresh from the evaporating it had received, remained on the table.