It was from Jorgenson, who had his favourites with whom he was less silent, that Lingard had heard of Darat-es-Salam, the “Shore of Refuge.”  Jorgenson had, as he expressed it, “known the inside of that country just after the high old times when the white-clad Padris preached and fought all over Sumatra till the Dutch shook in their shoes.”  Only he did not say “shook” and “shoes” but the above paraphrase conveys well enough his contemptuous meaning.  Lingard tried now to remember and piece together the practical bits of old Jorgenson’s amazing tales; but all that had remained with him was an approximate idea of the locality and a very strong but confused notion of the dangerous nature of its approaches.  He hesitated, and the brig, answering in her movements to the state of the man’s mind, lingered on the road, seemed to hesitate also, swinging this way and that on the days of calm.

It was just because of that hesitation that a big New York ship, loaded with oil in cases for Japan, and passing through the Billiton passage, sighted one morning a very smart brig being hove-to right in the fair-way and a little to the east of Carimata.  The lank skipper, in a frock-coat, and the big mate with heavy moustaches, judged her almost too pretty for a Britisher, and wondered at the man on board laying his topsail to the mast for no reason that they could see.  The big ship’s sails fanned her along, flapping in the light air, and when the brig was last seen far astern she had still her mainyard aback as if waiting for someone.  But when, next day, a London tea-clipper passed on the same track, she saw no pretty brig hesitating, all white and still at the parting of the ways.  All that night Lingard had talked with Hassim while the stars streamed from east to west like an immense river of sparks above their heads.  Immada listened, sometimes exclaiming low, sometimes holding her breath.  She clapped her hands once.  A faint dawn appeared.

“You shall be treated like my father in the country,” Hassim was saying.  A heavy dew dripped off the rigging and the darkened sails were black on the pale azure of the sky.  “You shall be the father who advises for good—­”

“I shall be a steady friend, and as a friend I want to be treated—­no more,” said Lingard.  “Take back your ring.”

“Why do you scorn my gift?” asked Hassim, with a sad and ironic smile.

“Take it,” said Lingard.  “It is still mine.  How can I forget that, when facing death, you thought of my safety?  There are many dangers before us.  We shall be often separated—­to work better for the same end.  If ever you and Immada need help at once and I am within reach, send me a message with this ring and if I am alive I will not fail you.”  He looked around at the pale daybreak.  “I shall talk to Belarab straight—­like we whites do.  I have never seen him, but I am a strong man.  Belarab must help us to reconquer your country and when our end is attained I won’t let him eat you up.”