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Chapter 8

The news as to the identity of the body lying now in Almayer's compound
spread rapidly over the settlement. During the forenoon most of the
inhabitants remained in the long street discussing the mysterious return
and the unexpected death of the man who had become known to them as the
trader. His arrival during the north-east monsoon, his long sojourn in
their midst, his sudden departure with his brig, and, above all, the
mysterious appearance of the body, said to be his, amongst the logs, were
subjects to wonder at and to talk over and over again with undiminished
interest. Mahmat moved from house to house and from group to group,
always ready to repeat his tale: how he saw the body caught by the sarong
in a forked log; how Mrs. Almayer coming, one of the first, at his cries,
recognised it, even before he had it hauled on shore; how Babalatchi
ordered him to bring it out of the water. "By the feet I dragged him in,
and there was no head," exclaimed Mahmat, "and how could the white man's
wife know who it was? She was a witch, it was well known. And did you
see how the white man himself ran away at the sight of the body? Like a
deer he ran!" And here Mahmat imitated Almayer's long strides, to the
great joy of the beholders. And for all his trouble he had nothing. The
ring with the green stone Tuan Babalatchi kept. "Nothing! Nothing!" He
spat down at his feet in sign of disgust, and left that group to seek
further on a fresh audience.

The news spreading to the furthermost parts of the settlement found out
Abdulla in the cool recess of his godown, where he sat overlooking his
Arab clerks and the men loading and unloading the up-country canoes.
Reshid, who was busy on the jetty, was summoned into his uncle's presence
and found him, as usual, very calm and even cheerful, but very much
surprised. The rumour of the capture or destruction of Dain's brig had
reached the Arab's ears three days before from the sea-fishermen and
through the dwellers on the lower reaches of the river. It had been
passed up-stream from neighbour to neighbour till Bulangi, whose clearing
was nearest to the settlement, had brought that news himself to Abdulla
whose favour he courted. But rumour also spoke of a fight and of Dain's
death on board his own vessel. And now all the settlement talked of
Dain's visit to the Rajah and of his death when crossing the river in the
dark to see Almayer.

They could not understand this. Reshid thought that it was very strange.
He felt uneasy and doubtful. But Abdulla, after the first shock of
surprise, with the old age's dislike for solving riddles, showed a
becoming resignation. He remarked that the man was dead now at all
events, and consequently no more dangerous. Where was the use to wonder
at the decrees of Fate, especially if they were propitious to the True
Believers? And with a pious ejaculation to Allah the Merciful, the
Compassionate, Abdulla seemed to regard the incident as closed for the

Not so Reshid. He lingered by his uncle, pulling thoughtfully his neatly
trimmed beard.

"There are many lies," he murmured. "He has been dead once before, and
came to life to die again now. The Dutch will be here before many days
and clamour for the man. Shall I not believe my eyes sooner than the
tongues of women and idle men?"

"They say that the body is being taken to Almayer's compound," said
Abdulla. "If you want to go there you must go before the Dutch arrive
here. Go late. It should not be said that we have been seen inside that
man's enclosure lately."

Reshid assented to the truth of this last remark and left his uncle's
side. He leaned against the lintel of the big doorway and looked idly
across the courtyard through the open gate on to the main road of the
settlement. It lay empty, straight, and yellow under the flood of light.
In the hot noontide the smooth trunks of palm trees, the outlines of the
houses, and away there at the other end of the road the roof of Almayer's
house visible over the bushes on the dark background of forest, seemed to
quiver in the heat radiating from the steaming earth. Swarms of yellow
butterflies rose, and settled to rise again in short flights before
Reshid's half-closed eyes. From under his feet arose the dull hum of
insects in the long grass of the courtyard. He looked on sleepily.

From one of the side paths amongst the houses a woman stepped out on the
road, a slight girlish figure walking under the shade of a large tray
balanced on its head. The consciousness of something moving stirred
Reshid's half-sleeping senses into a comparative wakefulness. He
recognised Taminah, Bulangi's slave-girl, with her tray of cakes for
sale--an apparition of daily recurrence and of no importance whatever.
She was going towards Almayer's house. She could be made useful. He
roused himself up and ran towards the gate calling out, "Taminah O!" The
girl stopped, hesitated, and came back slowly.

Reshid waited, signing to her impatiently to come nearer.

When near Reshid Taminah stood with downcast eyes. Reshid looked at her
a while before he asked--

"Are you going to Almayer's house? They say in the settlement that Dain
the trader, he that was found drowned this morning, is lying in the white
man's campong."

"I have heard this talk," whispered Taminah; "and this morning by the
riverside I saw the body. Where it is now I do not know."

"So you have seen it?" asked Reshid, eagerly. "Is it Dain? You have
seen him many times. You would know him."

The girl's lips quivered and she remained silent for a while, breathing

"I have seen him, not a long time ago," she said at last. "The talk is
true; he is dead. What do you want from me, Tuan? I must go."

Just then the report of the gun fired on board the steam launch was
heard, interrupting Reshid's reply. Leaving the girl he ran to the
house, and met in the courtyard Abdulla coming towards the gate.

"The Orang Blanda are come," said Reshid, "and now we shall have our

Abdulla shook his head doubtfully. "The white men's rewards are long in
coming," he said. "White men are quick in anger and slow in gratitude.
We shall see."

He stood at the gate stroking his grey beard and listening to the distant
cries of greeting at the other end of the settlement. As Taminah was
turning to go he called her back.

"Listen, girl," he said: "there will be many white men in Almayer's
house. You shall be there selling your cakes to the men of the sea. What
you see and what you hear you may tell me. Come here before the sun sets
and I will give you a blue handkerchief with red spots. Now go, and
forget not to return."

He gave her a push with the end of his long staff as she was going away
and made her stumble.

"This slave is very slow," he remarked to his nephew, looking after the
girl with great disfavour.

Taminah walked on, her tray on the head, her eyes fixed on the ground.
From the open doors of the houses were heard, as she passed, friendly
calls inviting her within for business purposes, but she never heeded
them, neglecting her sales in the preoccupation of intense thinking.
Since the very early morning she had heard much, she had also seen much
that filled her heart with a joy mingled with great suffering and fear.
Before the dawn, before she left Bulangi's house to paddle up to Sambir
she had heard voices outside the house when all in it but herself were
asleep. And now, with her knowledge of the words spoken in the darkness,
she held in her hand a life and carried in her breast a great sorrow. Yet
from her springy step, erect figure, and face veiled over by the everyday
look of apathetic indifference, nobody could have guessed of the double
load she carried under the visible burden of the tray piled up high with
cakes manufactured by the thrifty hands of Bulangi's wives. In that
supple figure straight as an arrow, so graceful and free in its walk,
behind those soft eyes that spoke of nothing but of unconscious
resignation, there slept all feelings and all passions, all hopes and all
fears, the curse of life and the consolation of death. And she knew
nothing of it all. She lived like the tall palms amongst whom she was
passing now, seeking the light, desiring the sunshine, fearing the storm,
unconscious of either. The slave had no hope, and knew of no change. She
knew of no other sky, no other water, no other forest, no other world, no
other life. She had no wish, no hope, no love, no fear except of a blow,
and no vivid feeling but that of occasional hunger, which was seldom, for
Bulangi was rich and rice was plentiful in the solitary house in his
clearing. The absence of pain and hunger was her happiness, and when she
felt unhappy she was simply tired, more than usual, after the day's
labour. Then in the hot nights of the south-west monsoon she slept
dreamlessly under the bright stars on the platform built outside the
house and over the river. Inside they slept too: Bulangi by the door;
his wives further in; the children with their mothers. She could hear
their breathing; Bulangi's sleepy voice; the sharp cry of a child soon
hushed with tender words. And she closed her eyes to the murmur of the
water below her, to the whisper of the warm wind above, ignorant of the
never-ceasing life of that tropical nature that spoke to her in vain with
the thousand faint voices of the near forest, with the breath of tepid
wind; in the heavy scents that lingered around her head; in the white
wraiths of morning mist that hung over her in the solemn hush of all
creation before the dawn.

Such had been her existence before the coming of the brig with the
strangers. She remembered well that time; the uproar in the settlement,
the never-ending wonder, the days and nights of talk and excitement. She
remembered her own timidity with the strange men, till the brig moored to
the bank became in a manner part of the settlement, and the fear wore off
in the familiarity of constant intercourse. The call on board then
became part of her daily round. She walked hesitatingly up the slanting
planks of the gangway amidst the encouraging shouts and more or less
decent jokes of the men idling over the bulwarks. There she sold her
wares to those men that spoke so loud and carried themselves so free.
There was a throng, a constant coming and going; calls interchanged,
orders given and executed with shouts; the rattle of blocks, the flinging
about of coils of rope. She sat out of the way under the shade of the
awning, with her tray before her, the veil drawn well over her face,
feeling shy amongst so many men. She smiled at all buyers, but spoke to
none, letting their jests pass with stolid unconcern. She heard many
tales told around her of far-off countries, of strange customs, of events
stranger still. Those men were brave; but the most fearless of them
spoke of their chief with fear. Often the man they called their master
passed before her, walking erect and indifferent, in the pride of youth,
in the flash of rich dress, with a tinkle of gold ornaments, while
everybody stood aside watching anxiously for a movement of his lips,
ready to do his bidding. Then all her life seemed to rush into her eyes,
and from under her veil she gazed at him, charmed, yet fearful to attract
attention. One day he noticed her and asked, "Who is that girl?" "A
slave, Tuan! A girl that sells cakes," a dozen voices replied together.
She rose in terror to run on shore, when he called her back; and as she
stood trembling with head hung down before him, he spoke kind words,
lifting her chin with his hand and looking into her eyes with a smile.
"Do not be afraid," he said. He never spoke to her any more. Somebody
called out from the river bank; he turned away and forgot her existence.
Taminah saw Almayer standing on the shore with Nina on his arm. She
heard Nina's voice calling out gaily, and saw Dain's face brighten with
joy as he leaped on shore. She hated the sound of that voice ever since.

After that day she left off visiting Almayer's compound, and passed the
noon hours under the shade of the brig awning. She watched for his
coming with heart beating quicker and quicker, as he approached, into a
wild tumult of newly-aroused feelings of joy and hope and fear that died
away with Dain's retreating figure, leaving her tired out, as if after a
struggle, sitting still for a long time in dreamy languor. Then she
paddled home slowly in the afternoon, often letting her canoe float with
the lazy stream in the quiet backwater of the river. The paddle hung
idle in the water as she sat in the stern, one hand supporting her chin,
her eyes wide open, listening intently to the whispering of her heart
that seemed to swell at last into a song of extreme sweetness. Listening
to that song she husked the rice at home; it dulled her ears to the
shrill bickerings of Bulangi's wives, to the sound of angry reproaches
addressed to herself. And when the sun was near its setting she walked
to the bathing-place and heard it as she stood on the tender grass of the
low bank, her robe at her feet, and looked at the reflection of her
figure on the glass-like surface of the creek. Listening to it she
walked slowly back, her wet hair hanging over her shoulders; laying down
to rest under the bright stars, she closed her eyes to the murmur of the
water below, of the warm wind above; to the voice of nature speaking
through the faint noises of the great forest, and to the song of her own

She heard, but did not understand, and drank in the dreamy joy of her new
existence without troubling about its meaning or its end, till the full
consciousness of life came to her through pain and anger. And she
suffered horribly the first time she saw Nina's long canoe drift silently
past the sleeping house of Bulangi, bearing the two lovers into the white
mist of the great river. Her jealousy and rage culminated into a
paroxysm of physical pain that left her lying panting on the river bank,
in the dumb agony of a wounded animal. But she went on moving patiently
in the enchanted circle of slavery, going through her task day after day
with all the pathos of the grief she could not express, even to herself,
locked within her breast. She shrank from Nina as she would have shrunk
from the sharp blade of a knife cutting into her flesh, but she kept on
visiting the brig to feed her dumb, ignorant soul on her own despair. She
saw Dain many times. He never spoke, he never looked. Could his eyes
see only one woman's image? Could his ears hear only one woman's voice?
He never noticed her; not once.

And then he went away. She saw him and Nina for the last time on that
morning when Babalatchi, while visiting his fish baskets, had his
suspicions of the white man's daughter's love affair with Dain confirmed
beyond the shadow of doubt. Dain disappeared, and Taminah's heart, where
lay useless and barren the seeds of all love and of all hate, the
possibilities of all passions and of all sacrifices, forgot its joys and
its sufferings when deprived of the help of the senses. Her half-formed,
savage mind, the slave of her body--as her body was the slave of
another's will--forgot the faint and vague image of the ideal that had
found its beginning in the physical promptings of her savage nature. She
dropped back into the torpor of her former life and found
consolation--even a certain kind of happiness--in the thought that now
Nina and Dain were separated, probably for ever. He would forget. This
thought soothed the last pangs of dying jealousy that had nothing now to
feed upon, and Taminah found peace. It was like the dreary tranquillity
of a desert, where there is peace only because there is no life.

And now he had returned. She had recognised his voice calling aloud in
the night for Bulangi. She had crept out after her master to listen
closer to the intoxicating sound. Dain was there, in a boat, talking to
Bulangi. Taminah, listening with arrested breath, heard another voice.
The maddening joy, that only a second before she thought herself
incapable of containing within her fast-beating heart, died out, and left
her shivering in the old anguish of physical pain that she had suffered
once before at the sight of Dain and Nina. Nina spoke now, ordering and
entreating in turns, and Bulangi was refusing, expostulating, at last
consenting. He went in to take a paddle from the heap lying behind the
door. Outside the murmur of two voices went on, and she caught a word
here and there. She understood that he was fleeing from white men, that
he was seeking a hiding-place, that he was in some danger. But she heard
also words which woke the rage of jealousy that had been asleep for so
many days in her bosom. Crouching low on the mud in the black darkness
amongst the piles, she heard the whisper in the boat that made light of
toil, of privation, of danger, of life itself, if in exchange there could
be but a short moment of close embrace, a look from the eyes, the feel of
light breath, the touch of soft lips. So spoke Dain as he sat in the
canoe holding Nina's hands while waiting for Bulangi's return; and
Taminah, supporting herself by the slimy pile, felt as if a heavy weight
was crushing her down, down into the black oily water at her feet. She
wanted to cry out; to rush at them and tear their vague shadows apart; to
throw Nina into the smooth water, cling to her close, hold her to the
bottom where that man could not find her. She could not cry, she could
not move. Then footsteps were heard on the bamboo platform above her
head; she saw Bulangi get into his smallest canoe and take the lead, the
other boat following, paddled by Dain and Nina. With a slight splash of
the paddles dipped stealthily into the water, their indistinct forms
passed before her aching eyes and vanished in the darkness of the creek.

She remained there in the cold and wet, powerless to move, breathing
painfully under the crushing weight that the mysterious hand of Fate had
laid so suddenly upon her slender shoulders, and shivering, she felt
within a burning fire, that seemed to feed upon her very life. When the
breaking day had spread a pale golden ribbon over the black outline of
the forests, she took up her tray and departed towards the settlement,
going about her task purely from the force of habit. As she approached
Sambir she could see the excitement and she heard with momentary surprise
of the finding of Dain's body. It was not true, of course. She knew it
well. She regretted that he was not dead. She should have liked Dain to
be dead, so as to be parted from that woman--from all women. She felt a
strong desire to see Nina, but without any clear object. She hated her,
and feared her and she felt an irresistible impulse pushing her towards
Almayer's house to see the white woman's face, to look close at those
eyes, to hear again that voice, for the sound of which Dain was ready to
risk his liberty, his life even. She had seen her many times; she had
heard her voice daily for many months past. What was there in her? What
was there in that being to make a man speak as Dain had spoken, to make
him blind to all other faces, deaf to all other voices?

She left the crowd by the riverside, and wandered aimlessly among the
empty houses, resisting the impulse that pushed her towards Almayer's
campong to seek there in Nina's eyes the secret of her own misery. The
sun mounting higher, shortened the shadows and poured down upon her a
flood of light and of stifling heat as she passed on from shadow to
light, from light to shadow, amongst the houses, the bushes, the tall
trees, in her unconscious flight from the pain in her own heart. In the
extremity of her distress she could find no words to pray for relief, she
knew of no heaven to send her prayer to, and she wandered on with tired
feet in the dumb surprise and terror at the injustice of the suffering
inflicted upon her without cause and without redress.

The short talk with Reshid, the proposal of Abdulla steadied her a little
and turned her thoughts into another channel. Dain was in some danger.
He was hiding from white men. So much she had overheard last night. They
all thought him dead. She knew he was alive, and she knew of his hiding-
place. What did the Arabs want to know about the white men? The white
men want with Dain? Did they wish to kill him? She could tell them
all--no, she would say nothing, and in the night she would go to him and
sell him his life for a word, for a smile, for a gesture even, and be his
slave in far-off countries, away from Nina. But there were dangers. The
one-eyed Babalatchi who knew everything; the white man's wife--she was a
witch. Perhaps they would tell. And then there was Nina. She must
hurry on and see.

In her impatience she left the path and ran towards Almayer's dwelling
through the undergrowth between the palm trees. She came out at the back
of the house, where a narrow ditch, full of stagnant water that
overflowed from the river, separated Almayer's campong from the rest of
the settlement. The thick bushes growing on the bank were hiding from
her sight the large courtyard with its cooking shed. Above them rose
several thin columns of smoke, and from behind the sound of strange
voices informed Taminah that the Men of the Sea belonging to the warship
had already landed and were camped between the ditch and the house. To
the left one of Almayer's slave-girls came down to the ditch and bent
over the shiny water, washing a kettle. To the right the tops of the
banana plantation, visible above the bushes, swayed and shook under the
touch of invisible hands gathering the fruit. On the calm water several
canoes moored to a heavy stake were crowded together, nearly bridging the
ditch just at the place where Taminah stood. The voices in the courtyard
rose at times into an outburst of calls, replies, and laughter, and then
died away into a silence that soon was broken again by a fresh clamour.
Now and again the thin blue smoke rushed out thicker and blacker, and
drove in odorous masses over the creek, wrapping her for a moment in a
suffocating veil; then, as the fresh wood caught well alight, the smoke
vanished in the bright sunlight, and only the scent of aromatic wood
drifted afar, to leeward of the crackling fires.

Taminah rested her tray on a stump of a tree, and remained standing with
her eyes turned towards Almayer's house, whose roof and part of a
whitewashed wall were visible over the bushes. The slave-girl finished
her work, and after looking for a while curiously at Taminah, pushed her
way through the dense thicket back to the courtyard. Round Taminah there
was now a complete solitude. She threw herself down on the ground, and
hid her face in her hands. Now when so close she had no courage to see
Nina. At every burst of louder voices from the courtyard she shivered in
the fear of hearing Nina's voice. She came to the resolution of waiting
where she was till dark, and then going straight to Dain's hiding-place.
From where she was she could watch the movements of white men, of Nina,
of all Dain's friends, and of all his enemies. Both were hateful alike
to her, for both would take him away beyond her reach. She hid herself
in the long grass to wait anxiously for the sunset that seemed so slow to

On the other side of the ditch, behind the bush, by the clear fires, the
seamen of the frigate had encamped on the hospitable invitation of
Almayer. Almayer, roused out of his apathy by the prayers and
importunity of Nina, had managed to get down in time to the jetty so as
to receive the officers at their landing. The lieutenant in command
accepted his invitation to his house with the remark that in any case
their business was with Almayer--and perhaps not very pleasant, he added.
Almayer hardly heard him. He shook hands with them absently and led the
way towards the house. He was scarcely conscious of the polite words of
welcome he greeted the strangers with, and afterwards repeated several
times over again in his efforts to appear at ease. The agitation of
their host did not escape the officer's eyes, and the chief confided to
his subordinate, in a low voice, his doubts as to Almayer's sobriety. The
young sub-lieutenant laughed and expressed in a whisper the hope that the
white man was not intoxicated enough to neglect the offer of some
refreshments. "He does not seem very dangerous," he added, as they
followed Almayer up the steps of the verandah.

"No, he seems more of a fool than a knave; I have heard of him," returned
the senior.

They sat around the table. Almayer with shaking hands made gin
cocktails, offered them all round, and drank himself, with every gulp
feeling stronger, steadier, and better able to face all the difficulties
of his position. Ignorant of the fate of the brig he did not suspect the
real object of the officer's visit. He had a general notion that
something must have leaked out about the gunpowder trade, but apprehended
nothing beyond some temporary inconveniences. After emptying his glass
he began to chat easily, lying back in his chair with one of his legs
thrown negligently over the arm. The lieutenant astride on his chair, a
glowing cheroot in the corner of his mouth, listened with a sly smile
from behind the thick volumes of smoke that escaped from his compressed
lips. The young sub-lieutenant, leaning with both elbows on the table,
his head between his hands, looked on sleepily in the torpor induced by
fatigue and the gin. Almayer talked on--

"It is a great pleasure to see white faces here. I have lived here many
years in great solitude. The Malays, you understand, are not company for
a white man; moreover they are not friendly; they do not understand our
ways. Great rascals they are. I believe I am the only white man on the
east coast that is a settled resident. We get visitors from Macassar or
Singapore sometimes--traders, agents, or explorers, but they are rare.
There was a scientific explorer here a year or more ago. He lived in my
house: drank from morning to night. He lived joyously for a few months,
and when the liquor he brought with him was gone he returned to Batavia
with a report on the mineral wealth of the interior. Ha, ha, ha! Good,
is it not?"

He ceased abruptly and looked at his guests with a meaningless stare.
While they laughed he was reciting to himself the old story: "Dain dead,
all my plans destroyed. This is the end of all hope and of all things."
His heart sank within him. He felt a kind of deadly sickness.

"Very good. Capital!" exclaimed both officers. Almayer came out of his
despondency with another burst of talk.

"Eh! what about the dinner? You have got a cook with you. That's all
right. There is a cooking shed in the other courtyard. I can give you a
goose. Look at my geese--the only geese on the east coast--perhaps on
the whole island. Is that your cook? Very good. Here, Ali, show this
Chinaman the cooking place and tell Mem Almayer to let him have room
there. My wife, gentlemen, does not come out; my daughter may. Meantime
have some more drink. It is a hot day."

The lieutenant took the cigar out of his mouth, looked at the ash
critically, shook it off and turned towards Almayer.

"We have a rather unpleasant business with you," he said.

"I am sorry," returned Almayer. "It can be nothing very serious,

"If you think an attempt to blow up forty men at least, not a serious
matter you will not find many people of your opinion," retorted the
officer sharply.

"Blow up! What? I know nothing about it," exclaimed Almayer. "Who did
that, or tried to do it?"

"A man with whom you had some dealings," answered the lieutenant. "He
passed here under the name of Dain Maroola. You sold him the gunpowder
he had in that brig we captured."

"How did you hear about the brig?" asked Almayer. "I know nothing about
the powder he may have had."

"An Arab trader of this place has sent the information about your goings
on here to Batavia, a couple of months ago," said the officer. "We were
waiting for the brig outside, but he slipped past us at the mouth of the
river, and we had to chase the fellow to the southward. When he sighted
us he ran inside the reefs and put the brig ashore. The crew escaped in
boats before we could take possession. As our boats neared the craft it
blew up with a tremendous explosion; one of the boats being too near got
swamped. Two men drowned--that is the result of your speculation, Mr.
Almayer. Now we want this Dain. We have good grounds to suppose he is
hiding in Sambir. Do you know where he is? You had better put yourself
right with the authorities as much as possible by being perfectly frank
with me. Where is this Dain?"

Almayer got up and walked towards the balustrade of the verandah. He
seemed not to be thinking of the officer's question. He looked at the
body laying straight and rigid under its white cover on which the sun,
declining amongst the clouds to the westward, threw a pale tinge of red.
The lieutenant waited for the answer, taking quick pulls at his
half-extinguished cigar. Behind them Ali moved noiselessly laying the
table, ranging solemnly the ill-assorted and shabby crockery, the tin
spoons, the forks with broken prongs, and the knives with saw-like blades
and loose handles. He had almost forgotten how to prepare the table for
white men. He felt aggrieved; Mem Nina would not help him. He stepped
back to look at his work admiringly, feeling very proud. This must be
right; and if the master afterwards is angry and swears, then so much the
worse for Mem Nina. Why did she not help? He left the verandah to fetch
the dinner.

"Well, Mr. Almayer, will you answer my question as frankly as it is put
to you?" asked the lieutenant, after a long silence.

Almayer turned round and looked at his interlocutor steadily. "If you
catch this Dain what will you do with him?" he asked.

The officer's face flushed. "This is not an answer," he said, annoyed.

"And what will you do with me?" went on Almayer, not heeding the

"Are you inclined to bargain?" growled the other. "It would be bad
policy, I assure you. At present I have no orders about your person, but
we expected your assistance in catching this Malay."

"Ah!" interrupted Almayer, "just so: you can do nothing without me, and
I, knowing the man well, am to help you in finding him."

"This is exactly what we expect," assented the officer. "You have broken
the law, Mr. Almayer, and you ought to make amends."

"And save myself?"

"Well, in a sense yes. Your head is not in any danger," said the
lieutenant, with a short laugh.

"Very well," said Almayer, with decision, "I shall deliver the man up to

Both officers rose to their feet quickly, and looked for their side-arms
which they had unbuckled. Almayer laughed harshly.

"Steady, gentlemen!" he exclaimed. "In my own time and in my own way.
After dinner, gentlemen, you shall have him."

"This is preposterous," urged the lieutenant. "Mr. Almayer, this is no
joking matter. The man is a criminal. He deserves to hang. While we
dine he may escape; the rumour of our arrival--"

Almayer walked towards the table. "I give you my word of honour,
gentlemen, that he shall not escape; I have him safe enough."

"The arrest should be effected before dark," remarked the young sub.

"I shall hold you responsible for any failure. We are ready, but can do
nothing just now without you," added the senior, with evident annoyance.

Almayer made a gesture of assent. "On my word of honour," he repeated
vaguely. "And now let us dine," he added briskly.

Nina came through the doorway and stood for a moment holding the curtain
aside for Ali and the old Malay woman bearing the dishes; then she moved
towards the three men by the table.

"Allow me," said Almayer, pompously. "This is my daughter. Nina, these
gentlemen, officers of the frigate outside, have done me the honour to
accept my hospitality."

Nina answered the low bows of the two officers by a slow inclination of
the head and took her place at the table opposite her father. All sat
down. The coxswain of the steam launch came up carrying some bottles of

"You will allow me to have this put upon the table?" said the lieutenant
to Almayer.

"What! Wine! You are very kind. Certainly, I have none myself. Times
are very hard."

The last words of his reply were spoken by Almayer in a faltering voice.
The thought that Dain was dead recurred to him vividly again, and he felt
as if an invisible hand was gripping his throat. He reached for the gin
bottle while they were uncorking the wine and swallowed a big gulp. The
lieutenant, who was speaking to Nina, gave him a quick glance. The young
sub began to recover from the astonishment and confusion caused by Nina's
unexpected appearance and great beauty. "She was very beautiful and
imposing," he reflected, "but after all a half-caste girl." This thought
caused him to pluck up heart and look at Nina sideways. Nina, with
composed face, was answering in a low, even voice the elder officer's
polite questions as to the country and her mode of life. Almayer pushed
his plate away and drank his guest's wine in gloomy silence.

Joseph Conrad

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