Then, just as we were thinking of repose, the watchmen of the schooner would hail a splash of paddles away in the starlit gloom of the bay; a voice would respond in cautious tones, and our serang, putting his head down the open skylight, would inform us without surprise, “That Rajah, he coming.  He here now.”  Karain appeared noiselessly in the doorway of the little cabin.  He was simplicity itself then; all in white; muffled about his head; for arms only a kriss with a plain buffalo-horn handle, which he would politely conceal within a fold of his sarong before stepping over the threshold.  The old sword-bearer’s face, the worn-out and mournful face so covered with wrinkles that it seemed to look out through the meshes of a fine dark net, could be seen close above his shoulders.  Karain never moved without that attendant, who stood or squatted close at his back.  He had a dislike of an open space behind him.  It was more than a dislike—­it resembled fear, a nervous preoccupation of what went on where he could not see.  This, in view of the evident and fierce loyalty that surrounded him, was inexplicable.  He was there alone in the midst of devoted men; he was safe from neighbourly ambushes, from fraternal ambitions; and yet more than one of our visitors had assured us that their ruler could not bear to be alone.  They said, “Even when he eats and sleeps there is always one on the watch near him who has strength and weapons.”  There was indeed always one near him, though our informants had no conception of that watcher’s strength and weapons, which were both shadowy and terrible.  We knew, but only later on, when we had heard the story.  Meantime we noticed that, even during the most important interviews, Karain would often give a start, and interrupting his discourse, would sweep his arm back with a sudden movement, to feel whether the old fellow was there.  The old fellow, impenetrable and weary, was always there.  He shared his food, his repose, and his thoughts; he knew his plans, guarded his secrets; and, impassive behind his master’s agitation, without stirring the least bit, murmured above his head in a soothing tone some words difficult to catch.

It was only on board the schooner, when surrounded by white faces, by unfamiliar sights and sounds, that Karain seemed to forget the strange obsession that wound like a black thread through the gorgeous pomp of his public life.  At night we treated him in a free and easy manner, which just stopped short of slapping him on the back, for there are liberties one must not take with a Malay.  He said himself that on such occasions he was only a private gentleman coming to see other gentlemen whom he supposed as well born as himself.  I fancy that to the last he believed us to be emissaries of Government, darkly official persons furthering by our illegal traffic some dark scheme of high statecraft.  Our denials and protestations were unavailing.  He only smiled with discreet politeness and inquired about the Queen.