“A white man,” answered Lingard from the canoe. “Is there not one torch in rich Lakamba’s campong to light a guest on his landing?”
“There are no torches and no men. I am alone here,” said Babalatchi, with some hesitation.
“Alone!” exclaimed Lingard. “Who are you?”
“Only a servant of Lakamba. But land, Tuan Putih, and see my face. Here is my hand. No! Here! . . . By your mercy. . . . Ada! . . . Now you are safe.”
“And you are alone here?” said Lingard, moving with precaution a few steps into the courtyard. “How dark it is,” he muttered to himself—“one would think the world had been painted black.”
“Yes. Alone. What more did you say, Tuan? I did not understand your talk.”
“It is nothing. I expected to find here . . . But where are they all?”
“What matters where they are?” said Babalatchi, gloomily. “Have you come to see my people? The last departed on a long journey—and I am alone. Tomorrow I go too.”
“I came to see a white man,” said Lingard, walking on slowly. “He is not gone, is he?”
“No!” answered Babalatchi, at his elbow. “A man with a red skin and hard eyes,” he went on, musingly, “whose hand is strong, and whose heart is foolish and weak. A white man indeed . . . But still a man.”