“So that,” remarked Singomengolo, “Dalima’s father, if they don’t hang him, will be at the very least imprisoned for life.”
“You know,” said Lim Ho, “that was wonderfully cleverly managed. But what’s up now?”
In the distance a well sustained rifle-fire was heard, in fact the chase had begun.
“It is only the gentlemen in the Djoerang Pringapoes. They are firing at the wild-pigs I suppose. Allah prosper them!”
“But,” said Lim Ho, “may not those white fellows get into our way, the ravine, you know, is not so very far off.”
“The toeans,” said Singo, “are a great deal too much engrossed in their sport to take any notice of what we are about. For myself, I much prefer to hear them blazing away yonder to their heart’s content in the Djoerang Pringapoes, than to know that they are sitting quill-driving in their offices. Your white man with a pen in his hand is a much more formidable creature, and is much more formidably armed too, than when he handles a rifle.”
Thus they sat talking and listening to what was going on beneath them in the Djoerang, while time was rapidly passing away.
“But Dalima does not seem to be coming,” signed Lim Ho, with impatience.
“Yes, she is,” said Singo, “yonder on that path between the rice-fields I see some one—that must be she.”
“Look, look!” cried Lim Ho, in consternation, “there from the ravine comes a white man—now we have lost our chance.”