ill. Tell them that I have come from the great king who dwells on the

other side of the black waters and that there are many men waiting at but a little distance. Tell them that I come as a friend, to find my wife, whom Samar has taken, and go away with her in peace; that the British _Raj_ has sent me to give them back Dara and take Abu-Samar down to the sea-shore in chains, that the prophecy may be fulfilled and the defiler of the sanctuary of the Crimson Butterfly slain. Tell them that if they receive me in peace--all is well; and if they greet me with spears, the hillsides will flash with fire and there will be many dead in the valleys.”

The man in the leopard skin waved his blow-pipe above his head and presently the shouting died down.

He spoke for fully twenty minutes by the professor’s watch, an eloquent, impassioned speech, and Standen mentally thanked his stars that they had stumbled upon a local orator for their advocate.

The speaker dropped his arms to his sides and there was a brief space of silence. Then, like a great tidal wave, the tumult burst upon them again. It was awe-inspiring, deafening, colossal; but Battiscombe, who could detect the difference between unfriendly native noises and the other kind, appeared satisfied.

He turned to Standen.

“Where’s that damn’ girl?” he demanded. “If we could only show her to ’em now, we’d beat that brute Samar all hands down.”

The professor raised a warning finger.

The high-priest was speaking again.

The guide leaned across.

“I told you so,” said Battiscombe again. “He’s asking for Dara. If she doesn’t show up inside a couple of minutes--the game’s up.”

He began shouldering his way towards the shrine with the friendly native at his heels.

“Follow me,” he shouted back. “If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll make sure of the high ground. We may find some sort of sanctuary up there.”

“The horns of the altar!” murmured Standen, as he caught him up.

A few paces from the high-priest himself, Battiscombe bowed politely.

“O wise one!” he began in Malay, assuming him to be a man of superior education, “Dara--the goddess of the Butterfly--is here.”

The priest regarded him suspiciously.

“You have said that Abu-Samar is a liar,” he reminded the Englishman, “also the son of liars. Abu-Samar, on the other hand, insists that it is you who lie and that it is you who have stolen the sacred pendant which should adorn the neck of our goddess. Restore to us Dara--and the pendant, and all will be well. Otherwise----”

Abu-Samar, still in the European garb he affected, drew himself erect.

“Battiscombe,” he called insolently, “you are a brave man and an optimist, but Abu-Samar holds your fate in the hollow of his hand. Yes, I stole your wife from Jelandang. You can shout it to these people again and again, but they will not believe you. They have waited for a white goddess all these years and, now that I have brought her to them, do you imagine they will let you take her away? In a moment I shall move one finger and you and your little party will be blotted out. I am lending your wife to these people. They shall keep her until I am ready to spirit her away, as I took Dara the brown girl.” He pointed at Battiscombe’s band contemptuously. “It will take more than that to arrest Abu-Samar. Seven little soldiers in round hats! It is an insult--the second time you have insulted me, Battiscombe!”

The magistrate held his head on one side.

“I’m afraid I shall have to inflict a third insult on you, Abu-Samar, for to-night I take you back with me--to be hanged like the dirty cut-throat you are!”

Samar drew in a deep breath and his eyes flashed.

“Dara!” he shouted to the crowd. “Where is she? They, who say they have brought her back, cannot find her. It is a lie, a trick… _Kill!_”

And then, as Battiscombe’s automatic leaped from his pocket, as grim little men gripped their rifles and a shrieking mass hesitated before sweeping down on them--a dark figure slipped from behind a rock and, drawing a long knife from her hair, buried it to the hilt in Samar’s back.

Abu-Samar dropped forward on to his knees and Dara waved the dripping blade aloft.

“Greetings, my people!” she cried, “Behold! here am I! Dara! I have come back to you. My white friends have brought me here--and he who stole me from you is dead!”

They grovelled before her now, moaning, chanting, beating their heads upon the ground, and Battiscombe, darting forward, snatched Vera up in his arms.

“We have won, _Tuan_,” said Kuraman at the professor’s side. “The _Tuan-Hakim_ has won--and the _mem_ is safe again. He is a wonderful man!”

Standen smiled.

“Kuraman,” replied the professor, “you are all wonderful men--all of you; do you understand?”

And he lit a cigarette.