“Tse!  Tse!  What ferocity is that!  One should not offer shame to a friend or to a friend’s brother lest revenge come sweeping like a flood.  Yet can an Illanun chief be other than tyrannical?  My old eyes have seen much but they never saw a tiger change its stripes.  Ya-wa!  The tiger can not.  This is the wisdom of us ignorant Malay men.  The wisdom of white Tuans is great.  They think that by the power of many speeches the tiger may—­” He broke off and in a crisp, busy tone said:  “The rudder dwells safely under the aftermost seat should Tuan be pleased to sail the boat.  This breeze will not die away before sunrise.”  Again his voice changed as if two different souls had been flitting in and out of his body.  “No, no, kill the tiger and then the stripes may be counted without fear—­one by one, thus.”

He pointed a frail brown finger and, abruptly, made a mirthless dry sound as if a rattle had been sprung in his throat.

“The wretches are many,” said Lingard.

“Nay, Tuan.  They follow their great men even as we in the brig follow you.  That is right.”

Lingard reflected for a moment.

“My men will follow me then,” he said.

“They are poor calashes without sense,” commented Wasub with pitying superiority.  “Some with no more comprehension than men of the bush freshly caught.  There is Sali, the foolish son of my sister and by your great favour appointed to mind the tiller of this ship.  His stupidity is extreme, but his eyes are good—­nearly as good as mine that by praying and much exercise can see far into the night.”

Lingard laughed low and then looked earnestly at the serang.  Above their heads a man shook a flare over the side and a thin shower of sparks floated downward and expired before touching the water.

“So you can see in the night, O serang!  Well, then, look and speak.  Speak!  Fight—­or no fight?  Weapons or words?  Which folly?  Well, what do you see?”

“A darkness, a darkness,” whispered Wasub at last in a frightened tone.  “There are nights—­” He shook his head and muttered.  “Look.  The tide has turned.  Ya, Tuan.  The tide has turned.”

Lingard looked downward where the water could be seen, gliding past the ship’s side, moving smoothly, streaked with lines of froth, across the illumined circle thrown round the brig by the lights on her poop.  Air bubbles sparkled, lines of darkness, ripples of glitter appeared, glided, went astern without a splash, without a trickle, without a plaint, without a break.  The unchecked gentleness of the flow captured the eye by a subtle spell, fastened insidiously upon the mind a disturbing sense of the irretrievable.  The ebbing of the sea athwart the lonely sheen of flames resembled the eternal ebb-tide of time; and when at last Lingard looked up, the knowledge of that noiseless passage of the waters produced on his mind a bewildering effect.  For a moment the speck of light lost in vast obscurity the brig, the boat, the hidden coast, the Shallows, the very walls and roof of darkness—­the seen and the unseen alike seemed to be gliding smoothly onward through the enormous gloom of space.  Then, with a great mental effort, he brought everything to a sudden standstill; and only the froth and bubbles went on streaming past ceaselessly, unchecked by the power of his will.