The sadness of defeat
pervaded the world.
"And what could you do, O Wasub?" he said.
"I could always call out--'Take care, Tuan.'"
"And then for these charm-words of mine. Hey? Turn danger aside? What?
But perchance you would die all the same. Treachery is a strong magic,
too--as you said."
"Yes, indeed! The order might come to your servant. But I--Wasub--the
son of a free man, a follower of Rajahs, a fugitive, a slave, a
pilgrim--diver for pearls, serang of white men's ships, I have had too
many masters. Too many. You are the last." After a silence he said in an
almost indifferent voice: "If you go, Tuan, let us go together."
For a time Lingard made no sound.
"No use," he said at last. "No use, serang. One life is enough to pay
for a man's folly--and you have a household."
"I have two--Tuan; but it is a long time since I sat on the ladder of
a house to talk at ease with neighbours. Yes. Two households; one in--"
Lingard smiled faintly. "Tuan, let me follow you."
"No. You have said it, serang--I am alone. That is true, and alone I
shall go on this very night. But first I must bring all the white people
here. Push."
"Ready, Tuan? Look out!"
Wasub's body swung over the sea with extended arms. Lingard caught up
the sculls, and as the dinghy darted away from the brig's side he had
a complete view of the lighted poop--Shaw leaning massively over the
taffrail in sulky dejection, the flare bearers erect and rigid, the
heads along the rail, the eyes staring after him above the bulwarks.
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