“A slave does run away sometimes,” she said, gloomily, “and then the master must go and seek him out.”
“And do you want to live and die a beggar?” asked Babalatchi, impatiently.
“I care not,” she exclaimed, wringing her hands; and the black pupils of her wide-open eyes darted wildly here and there like petrels before the storm.
“Sh! Sh!” hissed Babalatchi, with a glance towards Omar. “Do you think, O girl! that he himself would live like a beggar, even with you?”
“He is great,” she said, ardently. “He despises you all! He despises you all! He is indeed a man!”
“You know that best,” muttered Babalatchi, with a fugitive smile—“but remember, woman with the strong heart, that to hold him now you must be to him like the great sea to thirsty men—a never-ceasing torment, and a madness.”
He ceased and they stood in silence, both looking on the ground, and for a time nothing was heard above the crackling of the fire but the intoning of Omar glorifying the God—his God, and the Faith—his faith. Then Babalatchi cocked his head on one side and appeared to listen intently to the hum of voices in the big courtyard. The dull noise swelled into distinct shouts, then into a great tumult of voices, dying away, recommencing, growing louder, to cease again abruptly; and in those short pauses the shrill vociferations of women rushed up, as if released, towards the quiet heaven. Aissa and Babalatchi started, but the latter gripped in his turn the girl’s arm and restrained her with a strong grasp.
“Wait,” he whispered.
The little door in the heavy stockade which separated Lakamba’s private ground from Omar’s enclosure swung back quickly, and the noble exile appeared with disturbed mien and a naked short sword in his hand. His turban was half unrolled, and the end trailed on the ground behind him. His jacket was open. He breathed thickly for a moment before he spoke.
“He came in Bulangi’s boat,” he said, “and walked quietly till he was in my presence, when the senseless fury of white men caused him to rush upon me. I have been in great danger,” went on the ambitious nobleman in an aggrieved tone. “Do you hear that, Babalatchi? That eater of swine aimed a blow at my face with his unclean fist. He tried to rush amongst my household. Six men are holding him now.”