“I was the chief of a stockade at the mouth of the river, and collected tolls for my brother from the passing boats.  One day I saw a Dutch trader go up the river.  He went up with three boats, and no toll was demanded from him, because the smoke of Dutch war-ships stood out from the open sea, and we were too weak to forget treaties.  He went up under the promise of safety, and my brother gave him protection.  He said he came to trade.  He listened to our voices, for we are men who speak openly and without fear; he counted the number of our spears, he examined the trees, the running waters, the grasses of the bank, the slopes of our hills.  He went up to Matara’s country and obtained permission to build a house.  He traded and planted.  He despised our joys, our thoughts, and our sorrows.  His face was red, his hair like flame, and his eyes pale, like a river mist; he moved heavily, and spoke with a deep voice; he laughed aloud like a fool, and knew no courtesy in his speech.  He was a big, scornful man, who looked into women’s faces and put his hand on the shoulders of free men as though he had been a noble-born chief.  We bore with him.  Time passed.

“Then Pata Matara’s sister fled from the campong and went to live in the Dutchman’s house.  She was a great and wilful lady:  I had seen her once carried high on slaves’ shoulders amongst the people, with uncovered face, and I had heard all men say that her beauty was extreme, silencing the reason and ravishing the heart of the beholders.  The people were dismayed; Matara’s face was blackened with that disgrace, for she knew she had been promised to another man.  Matara went to the Dutchman’s house, and said, ‘Give her up to die—­she is the daughter of chiefs.’  The white man refused and shut himself up, while his servants kept guard night and day with loaded guns.  Matara raged.  My brother called a council.  But the Dutch ships were near, and watched our coast greedily.  My brother said, ’If he dies now our land will pay for his blood.  Leave him alone till we grow stronger and the ships are gone.’  Matara was wise; he waited and watched.  But the white man feared for her life and went away.

“He left his house, his plantations, and his goods!  He departed, armed and menacing, and left all—­for her!  She had ravished his heart!  From my stockade I saw him put out to sea in a big boat.  Matara and I watched him from the fighting platform behind the pointed stakes.  He sat cross-legged, with his gun in his hands, on the roof at the stern of his prau.  The barrel of his rifle glinted aslant before his big red face.  The broad river was stretched under him—­level, smooth, shining, like a plain of silver; and his prau, looking very short and black from the shore, glided along the silver plain and over into the blue of the sea.