“And even now my life is unsafe as if I were their enemy,” said Belarab, mournfully.  “Eyes do not kill, nor angry words; and curses have no power, else the Dutch would not grow fat living on our land, and I would not be alive to-night.  Do you understand?  Have you seen the men who fought in the old days?  They have not forgotten the times of war.  I have given them homes and quiet hearts and full bellies.  I alone.  And they curse my name in the dark, in each other’s ears—­because they can never forget.”

This man, whose talk had been of war and violence, discovered unexpectedly a passionate craving for security and peace.  No one would understand him.  Some of those who would not understand had died.  His white teeth gleamed cruelly in the dark.  But there were others he could not kill.  The fools.  He wanted the land and the people in it to be forgotten as if they had been swallowed by the sea.  But they had neither wisdom nor patience.  Could they not wait?  They chanted prayers five times every day, but they had not the faith.

“Death comes to all—­and to the believers the end of trouble.  But you white men who are too strong for us, you also die.  You die.  And there is a Paradise as great as all earth and all Heaven together, but not for you—­not for you!”

Lingard, amazed, listened without a sound.  The sleeper snored faintly.  Belarab continued very calm after this almost involuntary outburst of a consoling belief.  He explained that he wanted somebody at his back, somebody strong and whom he could trust, some outside force that would awe the unruly, that would inspire their ignorance with fear, and make his rule secure.  He groped in the dark and seizing Lingard’s arm above the elbow pressed it with force—­then let go.  And Lingard understood why his temerity had been so successful.

Then and there, in return for Lingard’s open support, a few guns and a little money, Belarab promised his help for the conquest of Wajo.  There was no doubt he could find men who would fight.  He could send messages to friends at a distance and there were also many unquiet spirits in his own district ready for any adventure.  He spoke of these men with fierce contempt and an angry tenderness, in mingled accents of envy and disdain.  He was wearied by their folly, by their recklessness, by their impatience—­and he seemed to resent these as if they had been gifts of which he himself had been deprived by the fatality of his wisdom.  They would fight.  When the time came Lingard had only to speak, and a sign from him would send them to a vain death—­those men who could not wait for an opportunity on this earth or for the eternal revenge of Heaven.

He ceased, and towered upright in the gloom.

“Awake!” he exclaimed, low, bending over the sleeping man.

Their black shapes, passing in turn, eclipsed for two successive moments the glitter of the stars, and Lingard, who had not stirred, remained alone.  He lay back full length with an arm thrown across his eyes.