father had given up all hope of seeing him a hadji; and besides, the captain of the
launch and the old punghulo, or chief, Anak’s father, were fast friends. The
marriage meant little more to the man.
But to Anak,—once the Prince Mat had told her she was pretty, when she had
come down to the wharf to beg a small crocodile to bury underneath her
grandmother’s bungalow to keep off white ants, and her cheeks glowed yet
under her brown skin at the remembrance. Noa had never told her she was
beautiful!
A featherless hen was scratching in the yellow sand at her feet, and a brood of
featherless chicks were following each cluck with an intensity of interest that left
them no time to watch the actions of the lovers.
“Why did you come?” she asked in the soft liquid accents of her people.
There was an eagerness in the question that suggested its own answer.
“To bring a message to the punghulo,” he replied, not noticing the coquetry of
the look.
“Oh! then you are in haste. Why do you wait? My father is at the canal.”
“It is about you,” he went on, his face glowing. “The Prince is coming back, and
we are to be married. My father, the captain, made bold to ask his Excellency to
let the Prince be present, and he granted our prayer.”
She turned away to hide her disappointment. It was the thought of the honor that
was his in the eyes of the province, and not that he was to marry her, that set the
lights dancing in his eyes! She hated him then for his very love; it was so sure
and confident in its right to overlook hers in this petty attention from a mere boy,
who had once condescended to praise her girlish beauty.
“When is the Prince coming?” she questioned, ignoring his clumsy attempt to
take her hand.
“During the feast of Hari Raya Hadji,” he replied, smiling.
She kicked some sand with her bare toes, amongst the garrulous chickens.