At length, for the sake of peace and quietness, To’ Kâya abandoned his nocturnal prowls among the graves, and settled down to live the orderly domestic life for which he was best fitted, and which he had only temporarily forsaken when the Sultân's ill-advised selection of him to fill a high post, and to bear a great name, had interrupted the even tenor of his ways.
One day, his father, To’ Bĕntâra Haji, fell sick, and was removed to the house of one Che’ Äli, a medicine man of some repute. To’ Kâya was a dutiful son, and he paid many visits to his father in his sickness, tending him unceasingly, and consequently he did not return to his home until late at night. I have said that this was an old cause of offence, and angry recriminations passed between him and his wife, which were only made more bitter because To’ Kâya mistook a stringy piece of egg, in his wife's sweetmeats, for a human hair. To a European, this does not sound a very important matter, but To’ Kâya, in common with many Malays, believed that a hair in his food betokened that the dish was poisoned, and he refused to touch it, hinting that his wife desired his death. Next night he was also absent until a late hour, tending his father in his sickness, and, on his return, his wife again abused him for infidelity to her. He cried to her to unbar the door, which, at length, she did, using many injurious words the while, and he, in his anger, replied that he would shortly have to stab her to teach her better manners.
At this she flew into a perfect fury of rage, 'Hei! Stab then! Stab!' she cried, and, as she shouted the words, she made a gesture which is the grossest insult that a Malay woman can put upon a man. At this To’ Kâya lost both his head and his temper, and, hardly knowing what he did, he drew his dagger clear and she took the point in her breast, their baby, who was on her arm, being also slightly wounded. Dropping the child upon the verandah, she rushed past her husband, and took refuge in the house of a neighbour named Che’ Long. To’ Kâya followed her, and cried to those within the house to unbar the door. Che’ Long's daughter Ësah ran to comply with his bidding; but, before she could do so, To’ Kâya had crept under the house, and he stabbed at her savagely through the interstices of the bamboo flooring, wounding her in the hip. The girl's father, hearing the noise, ran out of the house, and was greeted by To’ Kâya with a spear thrust in the stomach which doubled him up, and, like Abner Dean of Angel's, 'the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.' Meanwhile, To’ Kâya's wife had rushed out of the house, and returned to her home. Her husband pursued her, overtook her on the verandah, and stabbed her through the breast, killing her on the spot.
He then entered his house, which was still tenanted by his son, and his mother-in-law, and set fire to the bed curtains with a box of matches. Now, the people of Kuâla Trĕnggânu dread fire more than anything in the world; for, their houses, which are made of very inflammable material, jostle one another on every foot of available ground. When a Trĕnggânu man deliberately sets fire to his own house, he has reached the highest pitch of desperation, and is 'burning his ships' in sober earnest. At the sight of the flames, To’ Kâya's son, a boy of about twelve years of age, made a rush at the curtains, pulled them down, and stamped the fire out. To’ Kâya's mother-in-law, meanwhile, had rushed out of the house, seized the baby who still lay on the verandah, and set off at a run. The sight of his mother-in-law in full flight was too much for To’ Kâya, who probably owed her many grudges, and he at once gave chase, overtook her, and stabbed her through the shoulder. She, however, succeeded in making good her escape, carrying the baby with her. To’ Kâya then returned to his house, whence his son had also fled, and set it afire once more, and this time it blazed up bravely.
As he stood looking at the flames, a Kĕlantan man named Äbdul Rahman came up and asked him how the house had caught fire.
'I know not,' said To’ Kâya.
'Let us try to save some of the property,' said Äbdul Rahman, for, like many Kĕlantan natives, he was a thief by trade, and knew that a fire gave him a good opportunity of practising his profession.
'Good!' said To’ Kâya, 'Mount thee into the house, and lift the boxes, while I wait here and receive them.'
Nothing loth, Äbdul Rahman climbed into the house, and presently appeared with a large box in his arms. As he leaned over the verandah, in the act of handing it down to To’ Kâya, the latter stabbed him shrewdly in the vitals, and box and man came to the ground with a crash. Äbdul Rahman picked himself up, and ran as far as the big stone mosque, where he collapsed and died. To’ Kâya did not pursue him, but stood looking at the leaping flames.
The next man to arrive on the scene was Pa’ Pek, a Trĕnggânu native, who, with his wife Ma’ Pek, had tended To’ Kâya when he was little.