All this Hassim saw and then retreated undetected to that part of the shore where Immada waited for him, keeping the canoe afloat.  The Illanuns, trusting to the sea, kept very bad watch on their prisoners, and had he been able to speak with them Hassim thought an escape could have been effected.  But they could not have understood his signs and still less his words.  He consulted with his sister.  Immada murmured sadly; at their feet the ripple broke with a mournful sound no louder than their voices.

Hassim’s loyalty was unshaken, but now it led him on not in the bright light of hopes but in the deepened shadow of doubt.  He wanted to obtain information for his friend who was so powerful and who perhaps would know how to be constant.  When followed by Immada he approached the camp again—­this time openly—­their appearance did not excite much surprise.  It was well known to the Chiefs of the Illanuns that the Rajah for whom they were to fight—­if God so willed—­was upon the shoals looking out for the coming of the white man who had much wealth and a store of weapons and who was his servant.  Daman, who alone understood the exact relation, welcomed them with impenetrable gravity.  Hassim took his seat on the carpet at his right hand.  A consultation was being held half-aloud in short and apparently careless sentences, with long intervals of silence between.  Immada, nestling close to her brother, leaned one arm on his shoulder and listened with serious attention and with outward calm as became a princess of Wajo accustomed to consort with warriors and statesmen in moments of danger and in the hours of deliberation.  Her heart was beating rapidly, and facing her the silent white men stared at these two known faces, as if across a gulf.  Four Illanun chiefs sat in a row.  Their ample cloaks fell from their shoulders, and lay behind them on the sand in which their four long lances were planted upright, each supporting a small oblong shield of wood, carved on the edges and stained a dull purple.  Daman stretched out his arm and pointed at the prisoners.  The faces of the white men were very quiet.  Daman looked at them mutely and ardently, as if consumed by an unspeakable longing.

The Koran, in a silk cover, hung on his breast by a crimson cord.  It rested over his heart and, just below, the plain buffalo-horn handle of a kris, stuck into the twist of his sarong, protruded ready to his hand.  The clouds thickening over the camp made the darkness press heavily on the glow of scattered fires.  “There is blood between me and the whites,” he pronounced, violently.  The Illanun chiefs remained impassive.  There was blood between them and all mankind.  Hassim remarked dispassionately that there was one white man with whom it would be wise to remain friendly; and besides, was not Daman his friend already?  Daman smiled with half-closed eyes.  He was that white man’s friend, not his slave.  The Illanuns playing with their sword-handles grunted assent.  Why, asked