I sprang to the floor and across the heavily rugged room, and pulled up the offending chick.
Across the palace grounds, fresh from their morning bath, across the broad river Maur, for the nonce black in the shadow of the jungle, across the gilded tops of the jungle, forty miles away as the crow flies, rested the serrated peak of Mount Ophir.
Directly below me, a soldier in a uniform of duck and a rimless cap with a gold band was pacing up and down the gravelled walk. A little farther on a bevy of women and children were bathing in the tepid waters of the river, while a man in an unpainted prau was keeping watch for a possible crocodile.
The sun was rising directly behind the peak, a ball of liquid fire. I drew in a long draught of the warm morning air.
A Malay in a soft silken sarong, which fell about his legs like a woman’s skirt, stood in the door.
“The Prince is awaiting the Tuan Consul,” he said, with a graceful salaam.
I hurriedly donned my suit of white, drank my tea, and followed him along the grand salon, down a broad flight of steps, through a marble court, and into the dining room.
A great white punkah was lazily vibrating over the heavy rosewood table.
Unko Sulliman, the Prince Governor of Maur, came forward and gave me his hand.
“It will be a hard climb and a hard day’s work?” he said, pleasantly, in good English.