But scarcely had he uttered the words, before the door of the cabin flew open and Setrosmito appeared on the threshold.
He was an elderly man with grizzly hair which was flying in wild confusion about his head. His jacket was torn to ribbons and a few shreds of it only hung from one of his arms. His face, breast and hands were smeared with blood, so that the poor wretch looked a hideous object.
“There he is, there he is,” shouted the mob. “Now look out!”
Every lance-point was at once thrown forward in anticipation of a mad rush.
“I don’t wish to hurt anybody,” cried Setrosmito, to his fellows of the dessa. “But let no one come near me to lay a hand on me; the first that touches me is a dead man!”
With so frantic a gesture did he wave his kris, and so ghastly did he look in his frenzy, that the crowd rushed back in dismay. Thus Verstork, who the instant before had stood lost in the press, now found himself standing in the foreground.
No sooner, however, had the unfortunate Javanese caught sight of the white man than he cried out in piteous tones.
“Pardon, kandjeng toean, pardon,” and hurling his kris from him he flung himself at the Controller’s feet. “Pardon, pardon, kandjeng toean!” he cried again and again.
All this had passed with lightning rapidity—so quickly, indeed, that the bystanders scarcely knew what was going on. When the man besmeared with blood had advanced towards the Controller, many thought that the latter’s life was in danger. His friends, revolver in hand, rushed forward to protect him, the natives also were springing forward to despatch the now defenceless murderer. But Verstork calmly stopped them, put the foremost back with his hand, and restrained the others by crying out in a tone of command:
“Back, all of you! Keep back from the man. Do you hear?”