have ample time to cross over and greet him on his waking with important
news. Will he be displeased? Will he strike his ebony wood staff
angrily on the floor, frightening him by the incoherent violence of his
exclamations; or will he squat down with a good-humoured smile, and,
rubbing his hands gently over his stomach with a familiar gesture,
expectorate copiously into the brass siri-vessel, giving vent to a low,
approbative murmur? Such were Babalatchi's thoughts as he skilfully
handled his paddle, crossing the river on his way to the Rajah's campong,
whose stockades showed from behind the dense foliage of the bank just
opposite to Almayer's bungalow.

Indeed, he had a report to make. Something certain at last to confirm
the daily tale of suspicions, the daily hints of familiarity, of stolen
glances he had seen, of short and burning words he had overheard
exchanged between Dain Maroola and Almayer's daughter.

Lakamba had, till then, listened to it all, calmly and with evident
distrust; now he was going to be convinced, for Babalatchi had the proof;
had it this very morning, when fishing at break of day in the creek over
which stood Bulangi's house. There from his skiff he saw Nina's long
canoe drift past, the girl sitting in the stern bending over Dain, who
was stretched in the bottom with his head resting on the girl's knees. He
saw it. He followed them, but in a short time they took to the paddles
and got away from under his observant eye. A few minutes afterwards he
saw Bulangi's slave-girl paddling in a small dug-out to the town with her
cakes for sale. She also had seen them in the grey dawn. And Babalatchi
grinned confidentially to himself at the recollection of the slave-girl's
discomposed face, of the hard look in her eyes, of the tremble in her
voice, when answering his questions. That little Taminah evidently
admired Dain Maroola. That was good! And Babalatchi laughed aloud at