a ruined man, without ship, money or goods. My boat was still good enough and I could have made her seaworthy again with a little labor and trouble. The people of the coast have completed its destruction. My losses are greater by far—but I will be content with two hundred ringits in compensation.”
When he had spoken, there was a brief pause, during which Oka resumed his place with an embarrassed air at Alit’s feet. The lord bent over him expectantly. “The people of Taman Sari have come with their gamelan,” Oka whispered. “And Raka? Is Raka in the puri?” the lord asked quickly. “Raka is not with them,” Oka replied, laying his hand on his master’s knee as though he needed comforting. The sun already marked the last quarter of the day and dusk drew on.
“Kwe Tik Tjiang,” said the lord, suddenly remembering the name of the impudent and unpleasant petitioner, “as you had the Dutch flag on your ship and as in spite of this the gods allowed you to be wrecked, you can see for yourself that it is not holy and has no power whatever. But if, as you say, the Dutch are your friends, I advise you to go to Buleleng and ask for your two hundred ringits from them.”
With this the lord stood up, for his patience was at an end. The Chinese, however, took a step forward and said, “I am only a poor humble trader and cannot enforce my rights. But the Resident of Buleleng is well disposed towards me. He will use his power to see that I have my rights, for he has been put over the island by his queen and what he commands is done.”
Such insolence as this, accompanied by bows and submissive grimacing, sent the blood to Gusti Wana’s head. But before he could speak, the Dewa Gdé Molog leapt to his feet, and, losing all control of himself, sprang from the platform and stepped up to the Chinese.
“Our kings are inferior to no kings in the world,” he said in a loud voice. “Whoever insults them shall be punished with death. No one gives us commands and no one is allowed to smirch our honor. We are not afraid of the Dutch! Let them come with their cannon and their guns. We have cannon, too, and our soldiers can shoot, and when the Tjokorda sends out his holy kris and they see the sign of the lion and the snake, more than six thousand warriors will come with their spears and fight for Badung.”
Dewa Gdé Molog was endowed with a loud and resonant voice, he was a warrior of the Ksatria caste and a rash, hot-tempered man. He could read no lontars and his jokes, when he had been drinking palm wine, were broad and unrestrained. But his strength and his boastful talk gave him influence over the men. He had spoken in Balinese, or shouted rather, and to the farthest walls of the courtyard the men stirred and murmured their agreement. Even Ida Katut’s hand went involuntarily to his kris. But he soon let his wrinkled hand fall and looked at the ruby-adorned hilt which projected above the lord’s shoulder. It was the holy kris, Singa Braga, with the signs of the Lion and the Snake, on which Molog had called. It made his lord’s irresolute face seem even more irresolute. Alit’s face showed that his captain’s outspoken words had wounded him: his own pride lay deeper, encased, hard and difficult of access. “It is foolish to waste proud words on a Chinese pedlar,” he said wearily. Gusti Wana looked disapprovingly at his lord. Where can Raka be? Alit wondered impatiently. “The council is ended,” he said, and turned to go. The whole affair, which turned on such a trifle as two hundred ringits, seemed to him so utterly unimportant and petty. Where can Raka be? he thought. His heart was gripped with suspense; the whole day would end in nothing unless the sight of his friend gave it radiance and meaning. He was almost inclined to pay the Chinese the money merely to be done with it. But at that very moment he heard Kwe Tik Tjiang saying, “I will tell his Highness the Resident of Buleleng what the lord says.”
It was a humble but unmistakable threat. The Chinese bowed, smiled and waited. All looked at the lord and waited for his reply.
At this moment the gate-keeper crossed the court and whispered a message to Oka which he repeated to his master. The lord turned away impulsively and walked quickly through the gate leading to the outer court.
“My minister, the Gusti Wana, will resolve the matter,” he said over his shoulder to the punggawa who stood irresolute. Raka appeared on the steps and bowed to the lord with folded hands.
“Will my lord forgive me for being late?” he asked in the formal style. Alit quickly laid his hand on his shoulder.
He had forgotten the Chinese as completely as if they had never existed. His eyes shone and he expanded his chest with relief. “It does me good to see you,” he said familiarly, and putting his arm round Raka’s shoulder he led him away. “Tell me what you have done all day,” he said. “I have been terribly bored and only waiting for the evening.”
“Are you in a bad mood?” Raka asked with the same familiarity, for the ceremonial style was merely a joke between them, which they kept up for the courtiers’ benefit. By the time they entered the house, in front of which the tiresome conference had taken place, the Chinese and the punggawa, too, had vanished as though the earth had swallowed them up. Only Ida Katut still lounged on the steps, humming to himself. The lord took Raka in and Oka shut the door.
“Tell me something,” Alit said, sitting down cross-legged beside Raka on the couch. “In the puri the day is empty and the air stands still. What adventures have you had meanwhile?”
“I went to the temple,” Raka said. “We all took offerings, so that our dance may go well. Before that we rehearsed a long time, for we are doing something out of the common, and the gamelan players were all astray.”
The door opened and the servants brought in sirih and young coconuts with the shells cut off them. They drank the cool milk which had a delicate sourish taste, and Alit himself prepared the sirih for Raka.
“And so you have done nothing all day but make offerings and rehearse the dance?” he said with a smile.
“No,” Raka replied at once, smiling also.
“Why were you so late?” Alit asked abruptly. “In your life something is always happening. I want to have my share in it.”
“You need not envy me. I had troubles at home which detained me,” Raka said. The word “troubles” sounded oddly from his smiling lips.
“What kind of troubles?” the lord asked.
“My wife has miscarried of the child we were expecting. She bled and I had to stay with her.”
The lord was silent. Then he said, “You will beget another child.” “Many children from many wives,” Raka replied gaily.
“What does your wife look like?” Alit asked suddenly.
“She is taller than most women, nearly as tall as I am. Her face, too, is large and her hands. But she has eyes like a roe deer’s and there is great power in her.”
“I have heard that,” Alit said. “She found out where the punggawa should dig his well. Do you love her very much?”
Raka laughed and clapped him good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Love is a word from the old poems you read. In real life there is no love. Men come together like apes and birds. It is sweet sometimes to play with a woman, but the wind blows and there is an end of it. I cannot imagine what you mean when you speak of love.”
“And your wife?” Alit persisted. There was a frown on his brow and his eyes were unlit beneath the heavy lids.
“I married her because my father wished it. She is a great help to me now that my mother cannot see well. Also our families have always been connected. I respect her very highly—almost as if she were a man on the same level as oneself. She would
