Fearless and wily, Jaffir was the man for difficult missions and a born messenger—­as he expressed it himself—­“to bear weighty words between great men.”  With his unfailing memory he was able to reproduce them exactly, whether soft or hard, in council or in private; for he knew no fear.  With him there was no need for writing which might fall into the hands of the enemy.  If he died on the way the message would die with him.  He had also the gift of getting at the sense of any situation and an observant eye.  He was distinctly one of those men from whom trustworthy information can be obtained by the leaders of great enterprises.  Lingard did put several questions to him, but in this instance, of course, Jaffir could have only very little to say.  Of Carter, whom he called the “young one,” he said that he looked as white men look when they are pleased with themselves; then added without waiting for a definite question—­“The ships out there are now safe enough, O, Rajah Laut!” There was no elation in his tone.

Lingard looked at him blankly.  When the Greatest of White Men remarked that there was yet a price to be paid for that safety, Jaffir assented by a “Yes, by Allah!” without losing for a moment his grim composure.  When told that he would be required to go and find his master and the lady Immada who were somewhere in the back country, in Belarab’s travelling camp, he declared himself ready to proceed at once.  He had eaten his fill and had slept three hours on board the brig and he was not tired.  When he was young he used to get tired sometimes; but for many years now he had known no such weakness.  He did not require the boat with paddlers in which he had come up into the lagoon.  He would go alone in a small canoe.  This was no time, he remarked, for publicity and ostentation.  His pent-up anxiety burst through his lips.  “It is in my mind, Tuan, that death has not been so near them since that night when you came sailing in a black cloud and took us all out of the stockade.”

Lingard said nothing but there was in Jaffir a faith in that white man which was not easily shaken.

“How are you going to save them this time, O Rajah Laut?” he asked, simply.

“Belarab is my friend,” murmured Lingard.

In his anxiety Jaffir was very outspoken.  “A man of peace!” he exclaimed in a low tone.  “Who could be safe with a man like that?” he asked, contemptuously.

“There is no war,” said Lingard

“There is suspicion, dread, and revenge, and the anger of armed men,” retorted Jaffir.  “You have taken the white prisoners out of their hands by the force of your words alone.  Is that so, Tuan?”

“Yes,” said Lingard.

“And you have them on board here?” asked Jaffir, with a glance over his shoulder at the white and misty structure within which by the light of a small oil flame d’Alcacer and Mrs. Travers were just then conversing.

“Yes, I have them here.”