Her heart was beating rapidly, and facing her the silent
white men stared at these two known faces, as if across a gulf.
Four Illanun chiefs sat in a row. Their ample cloaks fell from their
shoulders, and lay behind them on the sand in which their four long
lances were planted upright, each supporting a small oblong shield of
wood, carved on the edges and stained a dull purple. Daman stretched out
his arm and pointed at the prisoners. The faces of the white men were
very quiet. Daman looked at them mutely and ardently, as if consumed by
an unspeakable longing.
The Koran, in a silk cover, hung on his breast by a crimson cord. It
rested over his heart and, just below, the plain buffalo-horn handle of
a kris, stuck into the twist of his sarong, protruded ready to his hand.
The clouds thickening over the camp made the darkness press heavily on
the glow of scattered fires. "There is blood between me and the whites,"
he pronounced, violently. The Illanun chiefs remained impassive. There
was blood between them and all mankind. Hassim remarked dispassionately
that there was one white man with whom it would be wise to remain
friendly; and besides, was not Daman his friend already? Daman smiled
with half-closed eyes. He was that white man's friend, not his slave.
The Illanuns playing with their sword-handles grunted assent.
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