It only remained to seek a pretext for a quarrel, and this was easily found. In the afternoon the Râja's followers were accustomed to play sêpak râga,—a game which consists in kicking a round basket-work ball, made of rattan, from one to the other, without letting it fall to the ground. When it became dark, the players adjourned to the Râja's bâlai or hall, and some of them forgot to let down their trousers, which had been hitched up above their knees to leave their legs free while playing. Bâyan was one of the older men among the Râja's followers, and he, therefore, checked these youths; for, to enter a Râja's bâlai with bared knees is an act of rudeness. To’ Mûda Long knew the custom, and, of course, his knees were covered, but when Bâyan spoke he leapt up and said:
'Arrogant one! Dost thou alone know the custom of kings? Thou art over clever at teaching men!'
And, drawing his kris he made a murderous assault on Bâyan. The latter whipped his kris out, too, and it would have gone ill with To’ Mûda Long, for Bâyan was a strong man and knew the use of his weapon, had not the older men, who were present, interfered to separate the combatants.
Next morning, Bâyan arose betimes, and, taking the long bamboos, in which water is stored and carried, he went down to the river to have his morning bath, and to fetch water for his house. He must have attached but little importance to the incident of the previous afternoon, for he went to the river unarmed, which was unusual in those days even for men who had no especial cause of quarrel. A Malay often judges the courage of his fellows by whether or no they are careful to be never separated from their weapons, and Europeans who, in humble imitation of Gordon, prefer to go about unarmed, make a great mistake, since a Malay is apt to interpret such action as being dictated by cowardice. Bâyan bathed in the river, filled his bamboos, and began to carry them to his house; but To’ Mûda Long had been watching his opportunity, and he and two of his followers, all fully armed, had taken up a position in the middle of the path, by which Bâyan must pass back to his house.
'Thou wast over arrogant to me last night,' said To’ Mûda Long as Bâyan approached, 'and now I will repay thee!'
'Have patience, To’ Mûda, have patience,' said Bâyan. 'Thy servant did not speak to thee; it was the boys who were unmannerly, and thy servant, being an old man, did reprove them!'
'It is not for the like of thee to reprove men, and the said boys are my people, the sons of my loins. I will cover their shame!' said To’ Mûda Long, for the wolf was determined to pick a quarrel with the lamb, bleat he never so wisely.
'Have patience, To’ Mûda!' again cried poor Bâyan, but the words were hardly out of his mouth before To’ Mûda Long struck at him with his spear, but missed him. Then, as Bâyan retreated step by step, defending himself with the clumsy bamboo from the deft spear thrusts, no more words passed between them.
At last the spear went home. 'Bâsah! Bâsah! I have wetted thee!' cried To’ Mûda Long, and he went in at his enemy, kris in hand, Bâyan beating him about the head with the now empty bamboo. When he got to close quarters, the deed was soon done, and the body of Bâyan the Paroquet, with seventeen rending wounds upon it, lay stark and hideously staring at the pure morning sky.
There was loud talk of blood-money, and equally loud talk of reprisals, but nothing came of it; and though I often meet To’ Mûda Long, who is as soft spoken and as gentle in his manners as ever, Bâyan's death was never revenged, and the fact that he ever lived and sang is now well-nigh forgotten, even by those who knew him, and loved to hear his tales.