march through the forest is even more depressing, when the soft pat of bare feet,
the snapping of a dry twig, a whispered word of warning or advice, the dull deep
note of the night-jar, and the ticking of the tree insects alone break the stillness.
Nerves become strung to a pitch of intensity which the circumstances hardly
seem to warrant, and all the chances of evil, which in the broad light of day a
man would laugh to scorn, assume in one's mind the aspect of inevitable
certainties.
I speak by the book; for well I know the depression, and the fearful presentiment
of coming evil, which these night marches are apt to occasion; and well can I
picture the feelings and thoughts which must have weighed upon Wan Lingga,
during that four hours' silent tramp through the forest.
He was playing his last card. If he succeeded in falling upon To’ Kâya unawares,
and slaying him on the spot, all that he had longed for and dreamed of, all that he
desired for himself and for those whom he held dear, all that he deemed to be of
any worth, would be his for all his years. And if he failed?—He dared not think
of what his position would then be; and yet it was this very thought that clung to
him with such persistence during the slow march. He saw himself hated and
abhorred by the people of the interior, who would then no longer have reason to
fear him; he saw himself deserted by To’ Gâjah, in whose eyes, he was well
aware, he was merely regarded as a tool, to be laid aside when use for it was
over; he saw himself in disgrace with the King, whose orders he had failed to
carry out; and he saw himself a laughing stock in the land, one who had aspired
and had not attained, one who had striven and had failed, with that grim phantom
of hereditary madness, of which he was always conscious, stretching out its hand
to seize him. All these things he saw and feared, and his soul sank within him.
At last Pĕnjum was reached, and To’ Kâya's house was ringed about by Wan
Lingga's men. The placid moonlight fell gently on the sleeping village, and
showed Wan Lingga's face white with eagerness and anxiety, as he gave the
word to fire. In a moment all was noise and tumult. Wan Lingga's men raised
their war-yell, and shrieking 'By order of the King!' fired into To’ Kâya's house.
Old To’ Kâya, thus rudely awakened, set his men to hold the enemy in check,
and himself passed out of the house in the centre of the mob of his frightened
women-folk. He was not seen until he reached the river bank, when he leaped
into the stream, and, old man that he was, swam stoutly for the far side. Shot
after shot was fired at him, and eight of them, it is said, struck him, though none
of them broke the skin, and he won to the far side in safety. Here he stood for a
moment, in spite of the hail of bullets with which his enemy greeted his landing.