without looking at Lakamba who lay down supported on his elbow on the
other side of the embers. "It was written when he was born that he
should end his life in darkness, and now he is like a man walking in a
black night--with his eyes open, yet seeing not. I knew him well when he
had slaves, and many wives, and much merchandise, and trading praus, and
praus for fighting. Hai--ya! He was a great fighter in the days before
the breath of the Merciful put out the light in his eyes. He was a
pilgrim, and had many virtues: he was brave, his hand was open, and he
was a great robber. For many years he led the men that drank blood on
the sea: first in prayer and first in fight! Have I not stood behind
him when his face was turned to the West? Have I not watched by his side
ships with high masts burning in a straight flame on the calm water?
Have I not followed him on dark nights amongst sleeping men that woke up
only to die? His sword was swifter than the fire from Heaven, and struck
before it flashed. Hai! Tuan! Those were the days and that was a leader,
and I myself was younger; and in those days there were not so many
fireships with guns that deal fiery death from afar. Over the hill and
over the forest--O! Tuan Lakamba! they dropped whistling fireballs into
the creek where our praus took refuge, and where they dared not follow
men who had arms in their hands."

He shook his head with mournful regret and threw another handful of
fuel on the fire. The burst of clear flame lit up his broad, dark, and
pock-marked face, where the big lips, stained with betel-juice, looked
like a deep and bleeding gash of a fresh wound. The reflection of the
firelight gleamed brightly in his solitary eye, lending it for a moment
a fierce animation that died out together with the short-lived flame.
With quick touches of his bare hands he raked the embers into a heap,
then, wiping the warm ash on his waistcloth--his only garment--he
clasped his thin legs with his entwined fingers, and rested his chin