“Observe,” cried the son, “I shall be in your hands like a skein of white thread, ready to assume whatever color the skill of the dyer may please to give it;” and so they continued, one after the other, till Prabu, had he not known their natures, might have believed himself at the head of an army of conquerors.
This comedy being finished, all present were invited to a banquet at the Chief’s house, and then followed a tragic scene of a very revolting nature; but, inasmuch as it exemplifies the manners and customs of these wild people, I must relate it. The dishes having been emptied and removed, and the dancing-girls having concluded their performances, the Chief arose and addressed a priest:
“My elder brother,” said he, “last night I had a dream, in which the whole of the accursed Dutch appeared to me in the shape of women. Tell me, I pray thee, its interpretation?”
“My lord,” replied the priest, “the dream is good; for women imply prosperity, and your expedition will have a fortunate termination.”
“It is good—now let my brother drink deep,” said the Chief; “for numerous shall be the baskets full of heads the Dutch Governor shall receive, but this time those of friends instead of enemies.”
And then commenced a scene which beggars description. With every fresh draught, they boasted more and more of their prowess; then, when there was scarcely one amongst them who could have stood upon his legs had he tried, thousands and thousands of Hollanders were slain with tongue and gesticulations; but the Chief exceeded them all in swagger, and, as liars are said sometimes to believe their own lies by the frequency of telling them, so he began to believe himself a demi-god.
“Who among my people,” he cried, frantically, “will dare say there is a Dutch sword, or bullet, that can harm their lord?”
“Our great Chief is invulnerable!” all present cried.
“It is so, my brethren—you have spoken rightly. Behold!” The whole company arose with cries of alarm, but it was too late. The savage, intoxicated to madness by enmity and wine, had tested his invulnerability by thrusting his creese into his breast: the result was a failure, for he had fallen dead. But let me draw a veil over the tragic scene, merely informing my readers that such acts are not uncommon among those wild races. As a rule, temperate and abstemious to a degree, when intoxicated they become—as, indeed, do all people in a greater or lesser degree—maniacs.
Very cruel are the customs of the Macassars, or people of Celebes, from whom this chief was descended. When an enemy falls dead, or wounded, the victor strikes off his head, and, placing it on the point of a spear, bears it away in triumph. “This, however,” says Crawford, “is far from being the utmost length to which they proceed, for on some occasions they actually go so far as to devour the heart of an enemy, either to gratify revenge or aggravate their usual ferocity. This practice is by no means unfrequent, and there is hardly a warrior of note who, at some period or other, has not partaken of this horrid repast. I saw several who had done so, and one person coolly observed, that it did not differ in taste from the offal of a goat or buffalo; but another, less hardened, assured me that he did not sleep for three nights after his meal, so haunted was his imagination at the thought of what he had done.”