from village to village, singing it for pay to the unlettered people, to whom these
songs and stories represent the only literature which comes within their
experience. Such minstrels are greatly loved by the villagers, who hold them in
high honour, giving them hearty welcome, and the name by which they are
known in the vernacular bears witness to the joy which they bring with them
whithersoever they go. Bâyan's real name was Mat Sâman, but we always called
him Bâyan—which means the Paroquet—because the tale which he sang told of
the wonderful doings of a prince, who was transformed into a fabulous bird
called the Bûrong Âgot, and whose attendants were the Paroquet and the Pied-
robin (Mûrai). As he sat kneading me, as a baker kneads dough, he began to
sing, and, that evening, and for many nights after, he sang his song to the Râja
and myself, to the huge delight of our people.
There was also in camp at this time a boy named To’ Mûda Long, who was the
eldest son of one of the great up-country Chiefs. He was returning from
Singapore with the Râja, to whom he had fled after some escapade of his had
excited the paternal wrath. He was a nice-looking youngster, with a slight lisp,
and a manner as soft as floss-silk, and he was always smartly dressed in pretty
Malay garments. We travelled together for more than three months, and I got to
know him pretty well, and took something of a liking to him. I knew, of course,
that his manner to his own people was not always as gentle as that which he
assumed when in the presence of the Râja or of myself, and during our progress
through his father's district I heard many tales of his ill doings. To these,
however, I attached but little importance, for Malays are very apt to malign a
young Chief who, as they say, is born like a tiger cub, with teeth and claws, and
may always be expected to do evil. Nevertheless, it would certainly never have
occurred to me at that time that this mild-eyed, soft-spoken, silken-mannered,
rather melancholy young man was capable of committing a peculiarly cruel,
deliberate, and cold-blooded murder. Until one begins to understand them, one's
Malay friends always seem to be breaking out in some new and unexpected
place, to the intense mortification and surprise of people who attempt to judge
Oriental character from a purely European standpoint.
The Râja and I journeyed through Pahang with great state and pageantry, our
party increasing in bulk as we went along, after the manner of a snowball. The
Râja and I were accommodated on a huge raft or floating house, and a perfect
flotilla of boats accompanied us. At length, after many days spent in floating
down the beautiful Pahang river, with the cool ripple of the water in our ears,
and the ever-changing views to delight our eyes, we came in sight of Pĕkan, and,