“O Allah, the all-merciful and loving kind!” he sang, as the blows rained upon
his face and breast. “O Allah, the compassionate.”
The golden handle of his kris shone like a dying coal in the centre of a circle of
flamelike knives; then with one wild plunge forward, into the midst of the
gleaming points, it went out.
“Sudah!—It is finished,” and a Malay raised his steel-bladed limbing to thrust it
into the bare breast of the dying man.
The young Prince stepped out into the firelight and raised his hand. The long,
shrill wail of a tiger from far off toward Mount Ophir seemed to pulsate and
quiver on the weird stillness of the night.
Noa opened his eyes. They were the eyes of a child, and a faint, sweet smile
flickered across the ghastly features and died away in a spasm of pain.
A picture of their childhood days flashed through the mind of the Prince and
softened the haughty lines of his young face. He saw, through it all, the wharf
below the palace grounds,—the fat old penager dozing in the sun,—the raft they
built together, and the birch-colored crocodiles that lay among the sinuous
mangrove roots.
“Noa,” he whispered, as he imperiously motioned the crowd back.
The dying man’s lips moved. The Prince bent lower.
“She—loved—you. Yes—” Noa muttered, striving to hold his failing breath,
—“love is from—Allah. But not for—me;—for English—and—Princes.”
They threw his body without the circle of the fires.
The tense feline growl of the tiger grew more distinct. The Prince’s hand sought
the jewelled handle of his kris. There was a swift rush in the darkness, a crashing
among the rubber-vines, a short, quick snarl, and then all was still.
If you run amok in Malaya, you may kill your enemy or your dearest friend, but
you will be krissed in the end like a pariah dog. Every man, woman, and child
will turn his hand against you, from the mother who bore you to the outcast you