“We had been tuburing one afternoon, and put back with our baskets filled to a spit of the shore where we had left an old islander, Kotali by name, alone and tending a fire for our meal.  Coming near we saw him stretched on the sand by his cooking-pots, and shouted to wake him, for his fire was low.  Kotali did not stir.  I was one of the first to jump ashore and run to him.  He lay with his legs drawn up, his hands clenched, his eyes wide open and staring at us horribly.  The man was as dead as a nail.

“I never saw people worse frightened.  ‘The Berbalangs!’ said someone in a dreadful sort of whisper, and we started to run back to the raft for our lives—­I with the rest, for the panic had taken hold of me, though I could see no sign of an enemy.  I supposed these Berbalangs, named with such awe, to be pirates or marauders from Tawi-Tawi or some neighbouring island, and the first hint that reached me of anything worse was a wailing sound which grew as we ran, and overhauled us, until the air was filled with roaring, so that I swung round to defend myself, yet could see nothing.  To my surprise a man who had been running beside me dropped on the sand, pulled a sigh of relief, and began to mop his face—­and this in the very worst of the racket.  ‘They are gone by,’ he shouted; ’the worse the noise the farther off they are.  They have taken their fill to-day on poor old Kotali.’

“Suddenly the noise ceased altogether, and we picked up courage to return and bury the body.  We had a basket of limes on the raft, and these were fetched and the juice squeezed over the grave; but no one seemed inclined to answer the questions I put about these Berbalangs.  It seemed that unless they were close at hand there was ill-luck even in mentioning them, and I walked back to the village in a good deal of perplexity.

“I should tell you, sir, that by this time I was the father of a fine boy; and that Aoodya doted on him.  When she was not feeding him or calling on me to admire his perfections, from the cleverness of his smile to the beautiful shape of his toes, he lay and slept, or kicked in a basket slung on a long bamboo fastened across the rafters, Aoodya would give the basket a pull, and this set it bobbing up and down on the spring of the bamboo for minutes at a time.

“Now when I reached home with my string of fish, I walked round to the back of the house to clean them before going in.  This took me past the window of our room, and glancing inside—­the window was unglazed, you understand—­I saw Aoodya standing before the cradle and talking, quick and angry, with a man posted in the doorway opening on the verandah.

“I was not jealous.  The thought never entered my head.  But I dropped my fish and whipped round to the doorway in time to catch him as he turned to go, having heard my footstep belike.

“‘Who the something-or-other are you?’ I asked.  ’And what’s your business in my private house?’