silindu knew well now that hinnihami had been a victim to save him. both the devil and the god had said, 'either the man or the girl must be given.' it was the girl who had been given; but it was he who should have died, when the devil still possessed him. he knew now, when it was too late, that in giving hinnihami to the vederala he was giving her to certain death. he had gained nothing by his first refusal of the vederala but pain and trouble, and now the bitterest of griefs. in the end he had lost her utterly; now indeed the house was empty. he was a fool, yes, a fool; he knew that; but how can a man know how to walk surrounded by all the snares of evil and disaster? a man may wash himself clean of oil, but however much he rubs himself he will never rub off fate. and then there was punchirala; it was he who was the real cause of the evil. why had he ever come with his hateful face into the compound? he would go in the early morning and take his gun and shoot the vederala dead as he came out of his house. and yet what would be the good of that now—now that hinnihami was dead? it would only be more evil. it would be useless. it was useless for him to do anything now.

for days silindu sat about the compound 'thinking and thinking,' as punchi menika called it. she alone had any influence with him, and even she had no power to console him. in time grief lost its first bitterness, and he sank into a perpetual state of sullen despair. an air of gloom and disaster seemed to hang about the compound.

it was not long after the life of the village had been stirred by the death of hinnihami that another event happened which caused no little excitement. it was seen that babehami, the headman, was having a house built on the open ground adjoining his compound; and as soon as it was finished there came to live in it a man from kamburupitiya, known as fernando. many of the villagers had had dealings with him: he kept a small boutique in kamburupitiya, and lent money on the usual, and even more than the usual, interest. he was not a sinhalese, and spoke sinhalese very badly. some people said he was a tamil: his black skin and curly black hair pointed to the fact that he had kaffir blood in his veins.

he was a typical town man, cunning, unscrupulous, with a smattering of education. he wore the ordinary native cloth, but above it a shirt and coat, and the villagers therefore called him mahatmaya. it was obvious that some very peculiar circumstances had brought such a man to settle down in a village like beddagama. the fact was that the headman and many of the villagers were deeply in his debt. the failure of the previous year's chena crop had made it impossible to recover anything; in fact he was pestered with requests for further loans to tide the debtors over the hot season, until the chenas could again be sown.

the creditor was faced with an unpleasant alternative. if he refused further loans he would lose what he had lent already through the death or emigration of his debtors, or they would borrow from others, and thus make it difficult for him to recover. on the other hand the complete failure of the chena crop made his own position far from easy: the debt outstanding together with the interest would be in itself a heavy charge on the next crop, even if it were a really good one. to be safe in giving still more credit, he required additional security.

it was babehami, the headman, who devised a scheme to meet these difficulties. four acres of chena would be allowed to each debtor: the permits would be given in favour of the debtors, who were to assign their rights to fernando for one-fifth of the crop. it was tacitly understood that if the four-fifths of the crop exceeded the amount of the loans and interest, the debts would be considered cancelled. fernando was to come to the village, and himself supervise the working of the chenas. practically, therefore, the money-lender was hiring labour for the cultivation of chenas for one-fifth of the crop, an exceedingly paying transaction; while his rights and power of action for the outstanding debts remained unaffected. the villagers were completely in his hands, and both sides were fully aware of it. the whole transaction, certainly, so far as the headman was concerned, was illegal. babehami knew this; but his needs were pressing, and his own profit would be great; for, while his consent was purchased by the cancellation of his debts, by a private arrangement with fernando, his own four acres of chena were not assigned to the money-lender.

to the villagers fernando was, owing to his dress and habits, a mahatmaya. he did not treat them as his equals, and they—being in his debt—treated him as a superior. he was, however, on terms of intimacy with babehami; and although he had a small boy with him as servant, he took all his meals in the headman's house.

punchi menika very soon attracted fernando's attention. her face and form would have been remarkable even in a town: to find her among the squalid women of so squalid a village astonished him. he wanted a woman to live with him; he was always wanting a woman; and it would be far more comfortable to have his food cooked for him than to go always to the headman for his meals. he anticipated no difficulty; she was a mere village woman, and the husband was a village boor, and in his debt.

despite his confidence fernando decided to act cautiously. he knew very little about villages, but he knew the many proverbs about women and trouble; and he had heard many tales of violence and murder, of which women had been the cause. he was quite alone among people whom he did not really understand, far away from the boutiques and police court, the busy little town which he understood, and where alone he really felt secure. he was a timid man, and he hated the jungle; and, though he despised these people who lived in it, he was not comfortable, with them.

his first move was to try to learn something about the family from the headman. he sounded babehami cautiously. the result pleased him greatly. they were bad people according to the headman—veddas, gipsies, traffickers in evil, whores, and vagabonds. by evil charms they had enticed babun to their compound, and now they boasted that he, the brother of the headman's wife, had married punchi menika. they were dangerous people; they had brought misfortune and death into the village. fernando was not greatly impressed by their reputation for working harm 'by magic'; as became a town-man, he was somewhat sceptical; but what was clear to him was that the headman hated the whole family; they would get in no eventuality any help or sympathy from him. this knowledge was as valuable as it was pleasing to him.

then one evening he surprised them by coming and chatting to babun almost as if he were an equal. it was evening, just about the time before the lamps are lit in the house, when the air grows cool, and the wind dies down, and the afterglow of the setting sun is in the sky. the work in the chena for the man, and in the house for the woman, was over. babun was squatting in the compound near the house, and punchi menika stood behind him, leaning against the doorpost. from time to time a word or two was spoken, but for the most part they were content to allow the silence of the evening to descend upon them, as they watched with vacant eyes the light fade out of the sky.

punchi menika brought the wooden mortar in which the grain was pounded, turned it upside down, and dusted the top with a piece of cloth.

'will you sit down, aiya?' said babun. fernando sat down upon it. babun squatted opposite to him, while punchi menika stood behind, leaning against the doorpost.

'well, babun,' said fernando, 'will the chena crop be good, do you think?'

'who can say, aiya, who can say? only a fool measures his grain before it is on the threshing-floor.'

'then all these villagers do that, for they are all fools. aiyo! what cattle! what trouble they give a man!'

'we are poor men, aiya, and ignorant.'

'i'm not thinking of you, babun, but of the others. there is only one man in the village; all say that, and i've seen it myself. but the others! they will ruin me. how much do they owe me! only a very good crop will pay it, but they don't care. they don't fence the chena or watch it; they sit and sleep in the compound, and the deer and pig go off with my rupees in their bellies. isn't that true?'

'it's true, aiya.'

'and what can i do, a town man, with all these chenas? i ought to have a gambaraya.'[41]

'yes, you want a gambaraya.'

'so i thought, and i thought too, "this babun is the only man in the village, why shouldn't he be my gambaraya?" well, what do you say? you could look after the other chenas, and also cultivate your own?'

babun was silent with astonishment; it was a piece of good fortune which he could never have dreamed of.

'i would give you one-twentieth of the crop, after the fifth had been paid to the cultivators,' fernando went on. 'would you do it for that?'

'yes, aiya, i will do it for that, gladly.'

'very well, that's settled. you are my gambaraya now.'

fernando sighed and stretched himself. 'what a place this jungle is!' he said. 'it is not fit for a sensible man to live in. of course these other villagers, if they went anywhere else, what could they do, the cattle? they do not know the east from the west, as the tale says. if they get into a bazaar they are frightened, and run about like a scared bull. but you, babun, you are young and strong; you are a knowing man. why do you starve here when you could eat rice and grow fat elsewhere?'

'so my sister and her man said, aiya! they wanted me to go away and marry in another village—over there; rain falls and rice grows there. but it is a great evil to live in a strange place and among strangers.'

fernando laughed. 'an evil you call it! but how many have got wealth and fortune by going to strange places! have you not heard of maha potana? many years ago it was all trees and jungle like this, and no one lived there. then they built the great tank in the jungle, and people went there from all the villages of the west—poor men living in villages like this. now it is a town, and all are rich there, and eating rice.'

'yes, aiya, we know that. the tank was built in my father's time. and the korala mahatmaya and the ratemahatmaya came to the village and spoke as you speak now. and they said that land would be given to all that went there, and water from the tank for the cultivation of rice. it was in a year, i remember my father telling me, when rain had not fallen—like the last crop with us—and there was want in the village, and many died of fever. they urged my father to go, for he was a good man: they knew that. and my father said to them—so he told me—"how can i go to this strange place? can i take the woman and the child with me? i have no house there, and no money to buy in the bazaar. among strangers and in strange places evil comes. here my father lived, and his father before him, in this house; and they cleared the chenas as i do, and from time to time when rain fell sowed rice below the tank. what folly for me to leave my home and field and the chena to meet evil in strange places." my father said this to the headman, and all the other men of the village also refused to go, except one man—appu they called him; he went with his wife, and was given land under maha potana. and nothing was heard of appu for many months; and his brother, who still lived here, at last went to maha potana to inquire about him. and when he came there the people told him that appu was dead of the fever, and that his wife had gone away, and no one knew where she had gone.'

'but people die of fever in beddagama.'

'yes, aiya, of course many people die of fever here too. but they die among their relations, and friends, and people who are known to them; in houses where their fathers lived before them. surely it is a more bitter thing to die in a strange place. i am a poor man and ignorant, and i cannot explain it to you better. there is always trouble and evil in strange places; when a man goes even upon a journey or pilgrimage to kamburupitiya or maha potana or beragama, always, aiya, he is troubled and afraid—in the bazaars and boutiques and on the roads people unknown to him—and everywhere he is thinking of his village, and his house, and the tank, and the jungle paths which he knows there, and people living in the village, all of whom he knows. that is why a man will not leave his village, even when the crops fail and there is no food; no, not even when the headmen come—and they come now every year—and say, "there is good land to be given in such a place, there is work upon such a road, or in such a village, why starve here?" i have heard people say that far away in the west there are large towns, colombo and kalutara and galle, where every one has food and money always; but, aiya, not even to those towns do you see a man going who has been born and lived all his life in a village.'

'am i not now among strangers? what evil will befall me?'

'may the gods keep it away from you, aiya. but how can a man tell what evil is before him? but you are not an ignorant village man like us, and besides after the chena is reaped you will return to your house.'

fernando was silent for a while. when he spoke again he had a curiously seductive effect upon his listeners. his low, soft voice and broken sinhalese, the languorousness and softness which seemed to pervade him fascinated them even more than what he said.

'what can the buffalo born in the fold know of the jungle? or does the wild buffalo know how to work in the rice-fields? i was born far away across the sea on the coast. i was only a little child when they brought me to colombo to live there in the shop which my father kept. he had no fear to leave his village and to cross the sea, nor had he any desire to go back again there. he was a rich man. ohé! what a town is colombo. there we lived in a great building, and all around us were houses and houses, and people and people: no jungle or snakes or wild beasts; not even a paddy-field or a cocoanut-tree. always streets and people walking, walking backwards and forwards on the red roads (and very few even known to you by sight), and bullock-carts and carriages and rickshaws, hundreds upon hundreds. and there are houses, very high, as high as the hill at beragama, full of white mahatmayas and their women, always coming and going from the ships. how many times have i stood outside when a boy and watched them, always laughing and talking loud, like madmen, and dancing, men and women together. and how fair are the women, fair as the lotus-flower as the tale says; very fair and very shameless.'

'is it true then that the women of the white mahatmayas are shameless?' broke in punchi menika.

'in colombo all say they are shameless. very fair, very mad, and very shameless. their eyes are like cat's eyes. the proverb says, "if the eyes of a woman are like the eyes of a cat, evil comes to the man who looks into them." the hair of the english mahatmayas' women is very fair, the colour of the young cocoanut-flowers. yes, they are mad. in the evening strange music is played by many men sitting high up near the roof; then every mahatmaya takes a woman in his arms, and looking into her eyes goes round and round very quickly on the floor.'

'aiya, aiya, is this a true tale?'

'why should i tell you what is false? did i not live twenty years there in colombo? it is a great town. in the morning i went and walked on the stone road that has been built into the sea, and within is the harbour, full always of great ships bigger than villages. always the mahatmayas are coming and going in the great ships; from where they come and where they go no one can tell. you stand upon the stone road, and you see the great ship come in across the sea in the morning, filled with white mahatmayas, and in the evening it carries them out again across the sea. they are all very rich, and for a thing that costs one shilling they willingly give five. also they are never quiet, going here and there very quickly, and doing nothing. very many are afraid of them, for suddenly they grow very angry, their faces become red, and they strike any one who is near with the closed hand.'

fernando stopped. he had become quite excited as he recalled his life in colombo in his youth. he had forgotten where he was. suddenly he became aware of his surroundings, the little village so far away from everything; the ignorant, uncouth villager who listened to him; the woman behind him for whose sake he had come to the hut, and whom for the moment he had forgotten. for a while babun did not like to disturb his silence, then he asked diffidently:

'but, aiya, if colombo is your village, how is it that you now live in kamburupitiya?'

fernando laughed. 'what talk is this of villages?' he said. 'everywhere here the question is, "of what village is he?" and then, "he is of beddagama or bogama, or beragama, or any gama."[42] and the liver in villages says, as you did but now, "how can i leave my gama?" did i not tell you that i am of no village? my father's village is beyond the sea, and they say that the father's village is the son's. i have never seen that village; i have forgotten its name. i was born in colombo, which is no village, but a town. aiyo! what a town it is! how pleasant! the houses and the noise and smell of the bazaar for miles, and the dust and people everywhere! what folly to live here, like a sanyasi on the top of a bare rock! perhaps one day i shall return to colombo, and live in a great house, as my father did. my father was a rich man, but always gambling; no money stayed in the house. and i spent much money upon women. there was a nautch-girl from the coast; her eyes had made me mad, and she devoured me. it was always rupees, and bracelets, and anklets, and silk cloths. then my father was very angry, for all the money had gone on the gambling and jewellery. there was no money to pay the merchants for goods for the shop, but worst of all he had no money for gambling. the girl had taunted me because i had come empty-handed, saying that she would shame me openly if i came back again with nothing. so i again asked my father for money. he drove me away, cursing me; so i went into the shop, and took goods and sold them, and taking two handfuls of silver flung them down before the girl. but when my father found what i had done, he cursed me again, and beat me, and drove me out of the house, saying, that if i returned he would give me to the police. i ran out very sad because of the girl. i was also sorry that i had given her both handfuls of silver, and had not kept one for myself. i stood at a street corner thinking that now i would die of hunger, and that it would be better to hang myself. just then there passed a moorman, cassim, a man of kalutara, a merchant, whom i had often seen in my father's shop. he laughed at me when he saw me, and said, speaking tamil, "now i see that the feet of the girl have danced away with the old man's wealth and the young man's life." at that the tears ran down my face, and i told him all that had happened. then he said, "come with me to kalutara. you can sell there for me in my shop." so i went with him to kalutara, and stayed there selling for him for two years. after that he sent me to sell for him in kamburupitiya, and there i now live, and have a shop of my own.'

fernando paused for a while; then he began again:

'you see i have no village. i live always among strangers, but no evil has come. i left colombo without a cent, and now i have become rich. what folly to starve where one was born when there are riches to be got in the neighbouring village! well, i am going now.'

babun accompanied his guest to the stile of the compound, and took leave of him with the usual words, 'it is well; go and come again.'

fernando was quite satisfied with his interview. he thought he had gauged babun, and that he would have no difficulty with him; he seemed so simple and mild. both the man and woman had obviously been impressed by him and by his wealth. he was, however, still cautious; he decided to make his first overture through the servant boy, whom he could trust.

the boy was instructed carefully. he was to go to punchi menika as if on his own initiative his master was a rich man, and a great lover of women. he had already remarked upon her beauty. the boy was quite sure that, though his master had not actually said so, he desired her greatly. if she agreed, he would tell his master that the next night that babun was watching in the chena she would come to his house or would receive him in hers. it would benefit both her and her husband, for his master was very kind and generous.

the attempt was a failure. punchi menika listened to what the boy had to say, and then gave him a sound smack in the face, which sent him crying back to his master. she was very angry with the 'badness of these boys from the town,' and she did not suspect that he had been sent by his master.

fernando beat the servant boy, and himself went to punchi menika's compound one evening when he knew that babun would be watching at the chena.

'woman,' he said, 'you have beaten my servant boy. why is that?'

'he came here with evil words, aiya.'

'evil words? a child of eight?'

'chi, chi. but he came here with evil words and lies.'

'lies? what did he say? that your face is very fair, and that all men desire you?'

'aiya, aiya, do not speak like that. he spoke shameful words. i cannot tell you what he said.'

'nonsense. you have beaten my servant and you must tell me why, or i must go to the headman.'

'aiya, why force me to tell what is shameful?'

'what nonsense. are you a child, then? what shame is there in words?'

'the boy came here with shameful words, saying that you desired a woman. he called me to come to you secretly at night, when my man goes to the chena.'

fernando looked very hard at punchi menika. he smiled when her eyes dropped.

'but what if the boy did not lie? what if he was sent by his master?'

'hush, aiya. do not speak like that.'

'why? am i so foul that the woman of the villager babun shrinks from me?'

'it is not that.'

'what is it, then? the women of colombo and kamburupitiya have not found me foul. are you afraid?'

'yes, aiya, i am afraid.'

'afraid of what? what harm can come? who need know? and what can babun do? he is a fool. he owes me money. what can he do?'

'i am afraid. it is difficult for me to explain to you, for i see you will grow angry. i am a village woman, ignorant: i am not a woman like that. i went to the man willingly, even against my father's will. he has been the father of my child, that is dead. he is good to me. let me alone, aiya, let me alone, to keep his house and cook his meals for him as before.'

'why not? i do not ask you to come to kamburupitiya to be my wife. there is no talk of leaving your husband. i am rich, and can give you money and jewels. you will bring good fortune to your husband, for i will cancel his debts and give him the share of the other chenas which i promised him.'

'i cannot do it, aiya.'

'what folly! there is nothing to fear. the houses are near with the same fence. no one will know if you come to me through the fence after nightfall. if i say 'come, i want you,' is it not enough? do you wish me to lie on the ground before you and pray to you?'

'enough, enough, aiya. pardon me, i cannot do it.'

'will you bring ruin on your man, then?'

'i do not understand.'

'what? she doesn't understand. what cattle these people are! is babun in my debt? is he to get a share of my chenas?'

'yes, aiya, i heard you tell him so.'

'well, is anything given for nothing? do they give you rice in the bazaar for nothing, or kurakkan or cloth? do they? fool, why do you stand there looking at me like a buffalo? you—your man, tell him that i have been here, and what i said. will he sell you to me like a sack of kurakkan? if not, he is a fool too, a dog, a pig; if not, he gets no share of the crop from me, his debts stand and the interest too. i can ruin him. he—i will, too, i will ruin him. do you hear that? well, what do you say?'

'what is there to say, aiya? i cannot do it. if this thing must come to us, what can we do? always evil is coming into this house—from the jungle, my father says. at first there was no food. then the devil entered into my father. then more evil, upon my sister and her child, and upon my child. the children died; they killed punchi appu; they killed my sister. and now evil again.'

punchi menika had spoken in a very low voice, very slowly. fernando stood looking at her. for a moment he was affected by the resignation and sadness of her tone. then he thought he had been a fool to lose his temper and threaten openly. but how could one deal with cattle like these people? he began to grow angry again, but he recognised that it was useless and dangerous further to show his anger and disappointment. he returned without another word to his house.

his failure astonished him almost more than it annoyed him. his first thought was to approach babun himself. probably the woman was only frightened of her husband, and probably the husband would see more clearly the advantages to be gained by giving his consent. but fernando had lost a good deal of his confidence; he felt the need of an adviser and ally. there could be no danger in consulting the headman. in any case it would be dangerous for babehami to oppose him, and there was every reason to believe that babehami would be only too glad of an opportunity of working against babun and punchi menika.

next day, after he had eaten the evening meal, in the headman's house, and while he was sitting in the compound with babehami, chewing betel, he opened the subject.

'i thought to get your wife's brother to oversee my chenas. he is a good man, i think.'

babehami spat. 'what will you pay him?'

'one twentieth of the crop. he is a good man to work.'

'he is a good worker. his chena is always the best, but he is a fool. he has brought disgrace upon us.'

'is he married to that woman?'

'no. he went to her father's house and lives there with her.'

'it would be a good thing to take him from them. is he not tired of her now?'

'he was mad about her. he would not listen to reason.'

'ah, but that was at first, long ago. they say the man first finds heaven in a woman, later in a field, and last in the temple. would you like to get him back to your house?'

'yes.'

'well, why not?' fernando moved nearer to babehami and lowered his voice. 'ralahami, i must live here some months. without a woman what comfort in a house? the woman is not ill-looking and could cook my meals for me. i had thought of this for some days, so i sent my servant boy to her. she answered that she would come, but she was afraid of her man. then i thought of speaking to the man, but it is not easy for a stranger. i thought, if he marries this woman it is a disgrace to the headman. it is better that his friends speak to him. probably he is tired of the woman, and will marry from another village some girl who has a dowry of land.'

babehami seemed to be considering the ground in front of him with great attention; from time to time he spat very deliberately. it was impossible to tell from his face what impression fernando's suggestion had made upon him. his silence irritated fernando. 'what swine these villagers are,' he thought.

'well,' he said at last, 'what do you say?'

'did she say she would come to you, if babun allowed her?'

'yes, but why do you ask that? if the man agrees, what difficulty can there be?'

'perhaps none, perhaps none, aiya, but who can say? they are mad those people. it happens so sometimes to people who live as we do in the jungle. the spirits of the trees, they say, enter into a family and they are mad and a trouble to the village. who knows what such people will do?'

'well?'

'what more is there to say now?'

'is the plan good?'

'yes.'

'but will you help me?'

'the plan is a good one certainly. but i am on bad terms with my wife's brother. we quarrelled about the girl. what can i do?'

'if you talk to him now, ralahami? you quarrelled when he was hot after the girl. that was long ago; and a man soon tires of the woman that has borne him children. and there are many ways, ralahami, to persuade him if you will help me. there are the debts and the chenas, and many other ways. what is there that a headman cannot do? it is wrong for him to sit still and watch disgrace come upon him and his family. have you given him his permit to chena yet?'

'no, not yet.'

'well, you can keep it back. how can they live without chenas? then there are the courts. i can help you there, for, being of kamburupitiya, i know the ways of the courts well. there will be cases and trouble for him, and for them.'

babehami was not to be hurried. he considered the proposal for some minutes. it was the sort of persecution which appealed to him. he would at the same time be injuring those he disliked, helping those in whose debt he stood, and pleasing himself. he could see very little risk in it, and much to gain.

'well, aiya,' he said at length, 'i will help you if i can. i will speak to babun. shall it be done soon?'

'yes, quickly. send for him now. there is no harm in doing it before me; and there is no time to lose if i am to get the woman.'

babehami was at first averse to doing things with such precipitation; he liked to think over carefully each move in his game. but he was overpersuaded by fernando, who could not restrain his impatience. a message was sent to babun that the headman wanted to speak to him. babun was very much astonished at receiving this message, and still more so at his reception. he was given a chew of betel and welcomed warmly.

'brother,' said the headman, 'it is a bad thing for those of the same blood to quarrel. this mahatmaya has been speaking of it, saying you are a good man. all that is very long ago, and it is well to forget it.'

'i have forgotten it. i have never had a bad thought of you in my mind, brother.'

'good, good. nor i of you, brother, really. well, and how are things with you now?'

'the light half of the moon returns. this mahatmaya is giving me his chenas to work for a share of the crop.'

'good, good. where there is food, there is happiness. never have i known a year like this, and i am growing an old man now. on the poya[43] day two months back there was not a kuruni of grain in all the village. i went to the korala mahatmaya; i said to him: "can men live on air?" he is a hard man. he said (his stomach swollen with rice), "for ten years now i have told you to leave your village. there are fields and land elsewhere; there is work elsewhere; they pay for work on the roads. if you make your paddy field on rock, do you expect the rice to grow?" i said to him, "the government must give food or the people will die." then he said, "go away and die quickly," and he abused me, calling me a tom-tom-beater, and drove me away. so i went to this mahatmaya and arranged about the chenas. had it not been for him, we should all have starved.'

'i know. the mahatmaya has been very good.'

'and now again the mahatmaya said to me: "it is a foolish thing to quarrel with a brother. it is long ago and about a woman. a young man hot after a woman! what use is it? send for him and be friends."'

'the mahatmaya is very good to us.'

'i was wrong, brother. i say it to you myself. i used shameful words to you. but that was long ago. a young man must have a woman. it is foolish to stand in his way. even the buck will turn upon you in the rutting season.'

'all that is forgotten now.'

'so the mahatmaya says: "it is time," he said, "for him to marry. send for him and become friends again. for the heat of youth is now past." so i sent for you.'

'i have come.'

'he said to me, "now is the time. the boy has become a man. when he learns about the woman, he will do as you ask."'

'i do not understand that.'

'the woman has offered to go and live with the mahatmaya and cook his meals for him. so the mahatmaya says, "very well, i will take her to live with me while i am here. i will give her food and money, and also to her father. i will give work in my chenas to your brother. so your brother can leave the woman and marry from another village."'

'i do not understand. i do not wish to marry from another village. and what offer of the woman do you talk of?'

'the woman came to the mahatmaya while you were away in the chena. she offered herself to him. the mahatmaya said to her, "i cannot take you unless the man gives you." then he came to me: he said to me, "this woman says this and that to me. it would be better for me to take her to live with me while i am here; and you should marry your brother to an honest woman." so i sent for you.'

'it must be lies, brother. it must be lies. who told this to you?'

'the mahatmaya himself. would he tell lies?'

'is this true, aiya?' babun asked fernando.

'yes, it is true. the woman came to me.'

'the woman is a whore, brother; i told you so long ago. it is better that you should give her to the mahatmaya, and marry now from another village. you can come back to my house and live here meanwhile.'

babun was dazed. his first instinct had been to disbelieve entirely the story about punchi menika. he did not believe it now, but he could not disbelieve it. why should the mahatmaya lie? he could not tell him to his face that he was lying. he got up and stood hesitating. the others watched him. fernando had difficulty in repressing his laughter. several times babun opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped.

'i do not understand,' he said at last. 'i do not understand this. the woman went to the mahatmaya? offered herself? aiya, that cannot be so. surely she would be afraid? yet you yourself say it's true. aiyo, i do not understand. i must go to the woman herself.'

babehami got up and caught hold of babun by the arm, trying to prevent his leaving the compound.

'do not do that, brother. let her go, let her go to the mahatmaya, and do you stay here. my house is always open to you; stay now and i will tell the woman to go to the mahatmaya.'

'no, no. i must see her myself.'

'what is the use? there will only be abuse and angry words. it is always lies or foul words in a woman's mouth.'

'i must go, brother. i must see her myself.'

'what folly! but you would never listen to me, and see what has come of it. she is a whore. it was known before, but you would not believe it. you would not listen. hark, the lizard chirps. it is an evil hour, but again you do not listen. you are going, brother, to meet misfortune.'

babun allowed himself to be brought back into the compound. his mind worked slowly, and he was dazed by the shock, and by the insinuating stream of the headman's words. but there was a curious obstinacy about him which babehami recognised and feared. babun came back, but he did not squat down again. he stood near fernando; his forehead was wrinkled with perplexity. surely the story could not be true, and yet how could it be false? why should the mahatmaya and babehami lie to him? the simplicity of his character made him always inclined to believe at once and without question anything said to him. the headman had reckoned on this, and his plan would probably, but for fernando, have succeeded. suddenly, however, the latter could no longer restrain his amusement. the wrinkled forehead, the open mouth, the pain and hesitation in babun's face as he stood before him, seemed to him extraordinarily ridiculous. he laughed. the laugh broke the spell. babun turned again.

'i must see the woman herself,' he said as he walked away.

'that was foolish, aiya,' said babehami to fernando. 'very foolish. he would have stayed.'

'i know. but i couldn't help it. he stood there like a bull pulled this way and that with a string in its nose. what now?'

'he will come back. then we shall see. it is spoilt now, i think. this bull is an obstinate brute when it jibs. we may have to use the goad. it will be the only way, i think.'

they waited in silence. the headman proved right. babun returned. he did not speak to fernando, but addressed himself to babehami.

'the mahatmaya was right to laugh at me for a fool. yes, i am a fool. i know that. the tale was false. it was the mahatmaya who called the woman to come to him, and she refused. i knew it. yes, brother, i knew it. but i was frightened by your words. i thought, "he is my sister's man, why should he lie to me?" it was lies. the woman wept for shame when i told her.'

'it was true, brother. it is the woman who is lying now to you. she is frightened of you, frightened that you should know what she has done.'

'i am a fool, brother, but what use is there in repeating lies now? the story was false. it was the mahatmaya who came to my house and called the woman to him. she refused. she would not leave me.' he turned to fernando. 'aiya, why come and trouble us? we are poor and ignorant, and you have wealth, and women in the town as you told us. leave us in peace, aiya, leave us in peace.'

'it is not lies,' broke in babehami. 'truly you are a fool. the woman is ashamed now, and lies to you, and you believe. but what has that to do with it? the mahatmaya is now ready to take the woman. it is time that this folly should end. let him take her, and come back to this house.'

'she refuses, i tell you.'

'what has that to do with it? it is time for you to marry, and leave that filth.'

'what is the good, brother, of beginning this again? it will only lead to angry words again. i told you, so many years back, that i want no other wife than this. it is the same now. i will live with no one else. all these lies and words are useless.'

'ohé, ohé! it may lead to angry words; yes, but are they useless? last time you refused to listen to me. well, i did nothing: i allowed you to go your own way. you brought shame on me and my family. i did nothing. i let you go. but now it is different. suppose they were lies, the words spoken by me just now. they weren't, but suppose they were. what then? the mahatmaya wants the woman now. he calls her to him: she will not come; you refuse to give her. is it wise, wise brother? think a little. is there much kurakkan in the house after the drought? the mahatmaya has made you overseer of his chenas. if the woman is refused, will you remain overseer? the twentieth of the crop will go, i think, to some one else. is it wise for the bull to fight against the master, when he has the goad in his hand? is it wise, too, always to be fighting against the headman? even the headman has a little power still. the chena permit has not yet come for you. perhaps it may never come. who knows?'

'the mahatmaya will not do that—and you—you are my brother.'

'if the woman is not given to me,' said fernando, 'neither will the twentieth be given to you. i have not come here to be laughed at by cattle like you. first the woman is offered, and then i am refused! what does it mean? would you try to make me out a fool?'

'very well, aiya, then i will not have the twentieth. the woman cannot be given to you.'

'fool,' said babehami. 'so you refuse again to listen to me? but remember this time it will not be as it was before. you shall not always disgrace and insult me.'

'i have never spoken nor thought evil of you, brother. but i tell you, as i told you before, i will not live without this woman. it is useless to talk more, for nothing but angry words will follow. therefore i am going.'

babun did not wait for any answer from the two men, but went quickly from the compound. the other two sat on discussing the matter for long. they had to take their steps quickly, for fernando would only be a few weeks in the village, and he was very anxious, now that he was really opposed, to possess punchi menika. their plans were laid that night.

babun and silindu very soon became aware of the web that was being spun around them. they had already begun to cultivate a chena together: two days after babun's conversation with babehami and fernando they found another man, baba sinno, a near relation of babehami, in occupation of it. babun went to the headman to inquire what this meant. the headman was quite ready to explain it. no permit could be given to babun and silindu this year. it was a government rule that permits were to be given only to fit persons. babun and silindu were not fit persons, therefore no permits could be given to them. that was all.

they returned to the compound amazed, overwhelmed. babun explained to silindu the real cause of the headman's act, the proposal of fernando and its reception. it was clear that the two men would stop at nothing, that they had determined upon the complete ruin of silindu's family, unless punchi menika were given up. for if no chena were given, it meant starvation; for they had at the utmost food only for a month, and besides that nothing but their debts. they saw that baba sinno was but a foil; they did not dare to turn him out by force, because they had no permits which would give them the right to do so. if they had felt that there was any one in the village who would openly take their part, it would have been different; but they knew that no one would dare to side with them against the headman and fernando, who already held the whole village enmeshed in their debt.

the more they discussed it the more horrible became their fear. in a month they would be starving or forced to leave the village. there was only one thing for them to do, to put the whole case before the assistant government agent. babun set off for kamburupitiya next morning with this object. his trouble and his fear drove him; and he did the three days' journey in two. on the morning of the third day, hours before the office opened, he was standing, haggardand frightened, on the kachcheri[44] verandah, waiting to fall at the feet of the assistant agent. at last a peon or two arrived, and later some clerks. at first no one took any notice of him. then a peon came and asked him what he wanted. he told him that he had come to make a complaint to the assistant agent. the peon said, 'the assistant agent is away on circuit. you must send a petition.'

'when will he be back?'

'i don't know.'

'where is he now, aiya?'

'i don't know.'

he had not the few cents necessary to buy him a fuller answer. he went from one peon to another, and from one clerk to another trying to learn more particulars. they told him nothing; they did not know, they said, when the assistant agent would return, or where he was; he had better have a petition written, and come again a week later. he became stupid with fear and misery. he hung about the verandah hour after hour, doing nothing, and thinking of nothing. at last, late in the afternoon, he wandered aimlessly into the bazaar. he was passing the shop of the moorman, who had previously made many loans in beddagama: cassim, who was sitting within doing nothing, knew babun and called out to him:

'what are you doing in kamburupitiya, babun? like cotton down in a storm! what is the matter with you? i hear that dog fernando is in beddagama—may he die of the fever.'

'i have been to the kachcheri to lay a complaint before the agent hamadoru. the agent hamadoru is away on circuit. i cannot learn where he is or when he returns.'

'ohé! a complaint? those dogs of peons! every one knows where the agent hamadoru is except the peon; and he only knows when there are fanams in his hand. the agent hamadoru is in galbodapattu on circuit: he will not return for another ten days. every one knows that.'

'aiyo! then we are ruined!'

'why? what is it?'

'we are ruined. only the agent hamadoru could help us, and now it will be too late. our chena is taken from us. aiyo! aiyo!'

'is this one of fernando's games? they say that the chenas are his now, and not the government's. the low caste fisher! vesige puta! he is a mudalali now: i expect he hopes to be made the agent hamadoru one day.'

'it is he, aiya, he and the headman. they want me to give my wife to the mudalali. i refused. now they have taken my chena from me. they will ruin me. the agent hamadoru, if he knew, would have interfered to stop this; but now it will be too late by the time i can complain to him. it will be too late, aiya!'

the fat moorman rolled from side to side with laughter.

'o the dog! o the dog! o the dog! there is no one like these fishers for finding money and women everywhere. allah! they call us moormen cunning and clever. the only thing i ever found in beddagama was bad debts. and here this swine of a fisher finds not only bags of grain, and bags of rupees there, but women too. but i am sorry for you, babun. i remember you; you were a good man in that accursed village. come in here now, and i'll see what i can do for you. i should like to stop that swine's game. but it is difficult. one wants time. we must send a petition; the agent hamadoru would stop it if he knew. but there are always peons and clerks and headmen in the way before you can get to him. cents here and cents there, and delays and inquiries! you want time, and we haven't got it. but there is nothing for it but a petition. here now, i'll write it myself for you to spite that dog fernando.'

the mudalali made babun give him all the particulars, and he wrote the petition, and stamped and posted it. he told babun to come in again to kamburupitiya in ten days' time to see him about it. he also gave him food, and made him sleep that night in his verandah. the next day babun, somewhat comforted, set out for his village. he was very weary by the time that he reached it: he felt that he could show little gain from his journey to silindu and punchi menika. ruin seemed very near to them. they could do little but sit gloomily talking of their fears.

but babehami and fernando were meanwhile not idle. the cunning headman and the town-man, with his energetic fertile mind, were a strong combination. on the morning after babun's return to the village a rumour spread through the village that the headman's house had been broken into during the night, and that babehami had left at once to complain to the korala. late in the afternoon of the same day the korala and babehami arrived in the village. they called to them three or four of the village men, and went with them straight to silindu's compound. the korala, a fat, consequential, bullying man, went in first and summoned babun, silindu, and punchi menika. they were handed over to babehami's brother, who was instructed to keep them in the compound, and not to allow them out of his sight.

the news of the burglary had not reached babun and silindu. they were bewildered by what was passing. they saw the korala go into the house with babehami. they were some time in the house, while the men in the compound talked together in whispers. a little group of men and women had gathered outside the fence, and fernando stood in the door of his house watching what was happening. at last the two headmen came out of the house. the korala was carrying a bundle. he walked up to babun and showed him the bundle: it consisted of two cloths, a pair of gold ear-rings, and some other pieces of gold jewellery.

'where did you get these from, yakko?'[45] he asked.

'i know nothing about them: they are not mine.'

'don't lie, yakko. they were in your house. where did you get them from?'

'hamadoru, i know nothing about them. some one must have put them there.'

'lies. they were stolen last night from the arachchi's house. the mudalali saw you leaving the house in the night. curse you, i shall have to take you into kamburupitiya now to the court and the magistrate hamadoru. and what about this fellow?' pointing to silindu, 'do you charge him as well?'

'yes, mahatmaya,' said babehami. 'but there is the box too. should not the jungle round the house be searched for it?'

'yes. hi there, you fellows! go and search that piece of jungle there.'

three or four men went off slowly and began a desultory search in the jungle which lay behind the compound. suddenly there was a cry, and one of them lifted up a large box. he brought it to the korala. the lock had been forced open. it was recognised as the headman's. the case was complete, and the onlookers recognised that the evidence against babun was damning.

babun and silindu were taken off to the headman's house. they had to spend the night in the verandah with babehami's brother, who was there to see that they did not run away. the injustice of this new catastrophe seemed to have completely broken babun's spirit. his misfortunes were too many and sudden for him to fight against. he refused to talk, and squatted with his back against the wall silent throughout the night. the effect upon silindu was different. he saw at last the malignity of the headman and how his life had been ruined by it. this last stroke made him aware of the long series of misfortunes, which he now felt were all due to the same cause. this knowledge roused him at last from his resignation and from the torpor habitual to his mind. he talked incessantly in a low voice, sometimes to babun, but more often apparently to himself.

'they call me a hunter, a vedda? a fine hunter! to be hunted for years now and not to know it! it is the headman who is the vedda, a very clever hunter. i have been lying here like a fat old stag in a thicket while he was crawling, crawling nearer and nearer, round and round, looking for the shot. where was the watching doe to cry the alarm? always he shot me down as i lay quiet. but the old hunter should be very careful. in the end misfortune comes. perhaps this time i am a buffalo, wounded. the wise hunter does not follow up the wounded buffalo, where the jungle is thick. ha! ha! the wounded buffalo can be as clever as the clever hunter. he hears the man crawling and crawling through the jungle. he stands there out of the track in the shadows, the great black head down, the blood bubbling through the wound, listening to the twigs snap and the dry leaves rustle; and the man comes nearer and nearer. fool! you cannot see him there, but he can see you now; he will let you pass him, and then out he will dash upon you, and his great horns will crash into your side, and he will fling you backwards through the air as if you were paddy straw. the old buffalo knows, the old buffalo knows; the young men laugh at him, "buffaloes' eyes," they say, "blind eyes, foolish eyes, a foolish face like a buffalo," but he is clever, amma! he is clever—when wounded—when he hears the hunter after him—cleverer than the cleverest hunter. and when it has gone on for years! all his life! what will he do then? will he lie quiet then? oh! he will lie quiet, yes, and let them take all from him, daughter and home and food. he will shake his head and sigh the great sigh, and lie quiet in the mud of the wallow, very sad. and then at last they come after his life. shall they take that too? then at last he knows and is angry—very angry—and he stands waiting for them. the fools! they come on, crawling still; they do not know that he is ready for them now. the fools! the fools!'

the next morning the korala took with him the complainant, the accused, and the witnesses, of whom fernando turned out to be one, and started for kamburupitiya. punchi menika went with them. they travelled slowly, and reached kamburupitiya on the fourth morning. silindu had relapsed into his usual state of sullen silence; babun's spirit appeared to be completely broken. he scarcely understood what the charge against him was; he knew nothing of why or on what evidence it had been made. he waited bewildered to see what new misfortune fate and his enemies would bring upon him.

the parties and witnesses in the case were taken at once to the court-house. they waited about all the morning on the verandah. the court was a very large oblong room with a roof of flat red tiles. at one end was the bench, a raised dais, with a wooden balustrade round it. there were a table and chair upon the dais. in the centre of the room was a large table with chairs round it for the bar and the more respectable witnesses. at the further end of the room was the dock, a sort of narrow oblong cage made of a wooden fence with a gate in it. silindu and babun were locked up in this cage, and a court peon stood by the gate in charge of them. there was no other furniture in the room except the witness-box, a small square wooden platform surrounded by a wooden balustrade on three of its sides.

nothing happened all the morning: babun and silindu squatted down behind the bars of their cage. they were silent: they had never been in so vast or so high a room. the red tiles of the roof seemed a very long way above their heads. outside they could hear the murmur of the sea, and the rush of the wind, and the whispered conversation of the witnesses on the verandah; but inside the empty room the silence awed them. about one o'clock there was a stir through the court: the headmen hurried in, a proctor or two came and sat down at the table. the peon nudged babun and silindu, and told them to stand up. then they saw a white hamadoru, an englishman, appear on the da?s and sit down. the court interpreter, a sinhalese mahatmaya in coat and trousers, stood upon a small wooden step near the bench. the judge spoke to him in an angry voice. the interpreter replied in a soothing deferential tone. the conversation being in english was unintelligible to babun and silindu. then the door of their cage was unlocked, and they were led out and made to stand up against the wall on the left of the bench.

the court-house stood on a bare hill which rose above the town, a small headland which ran out into the sea to form one side of the little bay. the judge, as he sat upon the bench, looked out through the great open doors opposite to him, down upon the blue waters of the bay, the red roofs of the houses, and then the interminable jungle, the grey jungle stretching out to the horizon and the faint line of the hills. and throughout the case this vast view, framed like a picture in the heavy wooden doorway, was continually before the eyes of the accused. their eyes wandered from the bare room to the boats and the canoes, bobbing up and down in the bay, to the group of little figures on the shore hauling in the great nets under the blazing sun, to the dust storms sweeping over the jungle, miles away where they lived. the air of the court was hot, heavy, oppressive; the voices of those who spoke seemed both to themselves and to the others unreal in the stillness. the murmur of the little waves in the bay, the confused shouts of the fishermen on the shore, the sound of the wind in the trees floated up to them as if from another world.

it was like a dream. they did not understand what exactly was happening. this was 'a case' and they were 'the accused,' that was all they knew. the judge looked at them and frowned; this increased their fear and confusion. the judge said something to the interpreter, who asked them their names in an angry threatening voice. silindu had forgotten what his ge[46] name was; the interpreter became still more angry at this, and silindu still more sullen and confused. from time to time the judge said a few sharp words in english to the interpreter: silindu and babun were never quite certain whether he was or was not speaking to them, or whether, when the interpreter spoke to them in sinhalese, the words were really his own, or whether he was interpreting what the judge had said.

at last the question of the names was settled. babehami was told to go into the witness box. as he did so a proctor stood up at the table and said:

'i appear for the complainant, your honour.'

'any one for the defence?' said the judge.

'have you a proctor?' the interpreter asked silindu.

'no,' said babun, 'we are very poor.'

'no, your worship,' said the interpreter.

babehami knew exactly what to do; it was not the first time that he had given evidence. he was quite at his ease when he made the affirmation that he would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. he gave his name and his occupation. then his proctor stood up and said to him:

'now arachchi, tell us exactly what has happened.'

babehami cleared his throat and then told the following story in a rather sing-song voice:

'about four days ago when i woke up in the morning my wife had gone out into the compound. i heard her cry out, "aiyo, some one has made a hole in the wall of the house." i ran out and saw a hole on the western side of the house. the hole was big enough for a man to crawl through. there are two rooms in the house, one on the eastern side, and one on the western side. we, my wife and i, were sleeping that night in the room on the east side; in the other room was a wooden box in which were clothes and two new sarong cloths and jewellery belonging to my wife. the box was locked. when i saw the hole i ran back into the house to see if the box was safe. i found it had disappeared. at that i cried out: "aiyo, my box has been stolen." then the mudalali, who had been staying in the hut next to mine, hearing the cries came up and asked what was the matter. i told him: he said, "last night about four peyas[47] before dawn i went out into the compound for a call of nature. i heard a noise in your compound. thinking it was a wild pig i stepped back into the doorway and looked. then i saw your brother-in-law come running from your compound carrying something in his hands. he ran into the jungle behind his own house." i went straight off to the village of the korala mahatmaya; it lies many miles away to the north. then when the sun was about there (pointing about three-quarters way up the wall of the court) i met the korala mahatmaya on the road. the korala mahatmaya said, "what are you coming this way for, to trouble me? i am going to kamburupitiya." i told him what had happened and turned with him to go back. we came to the village in the afternoon. the korala mahatmaya went to the accused's house and searched. in the roof between the thatch he found the two sarong cloths and my wife's jewellery, and the box with the lock broken was found in the jungle behind the house.'

when babehami began his story, babun and silindu had not really listened to what he was saying. they were still dazed and confused, they did not quite understand what was going on. but as he proceeded, they gradually grasped what he was doing, and when he told the story about the mudalali, they saw the whole plot. their brains worked slowly; they felt they were trapped; there was no way out of it. babehami's proctor stood up to examine him, but the judge interrupted him:

'the first accused, i understand, is the brother-in-law of the complainant. is that correct? i propose to charge the accused now. but is there any evidence against the second accused—silindu, isn't his name?—mr. perera?'

the proctor called babehami to him and had a whispered conversation with him.

'there is no evidence, sir,' he said to the judge, 'to connect him directly with the theft. but he was in the house in which the first accused lived, on the night in question. he must have been an accessory. he is the owner of the house, i understand, and might be charged with receiving.'

'no, certainly not—if that's your only evidence to connect him with the theft. i should not be prepared to convict in any case, mr. perera. i shall discharge him at once—especially as the man does not look as if he is quite right in the head.'

'very well, sir.'

'charge the first accused only,' said the judge to the interpreter. 'there is no evidence against the second accused. he can go.'

this conversation had been in english and therefore was again unintelligible to the two accused. their bewilderment was increased therefore when the interpreter said to silindu: 'you there, go away.' silindu, not knowing where he had to go, remained where he was. 'can't you hear, yakko?' shouted the interpreter. 'clear out.' the peon came up and pushed silindu out on to the verandah. a small group of idle spectators laughed at him as he came out.

'they'll hang you in the evening, father,' said a small boy.

'i thought the judge hamadoru said ten years' rigorous imprisonment,' said a young man. silindu turned to an old man who looked like a villager, and said:

'what does it mean, friend?' every one laughed.

'you are acquitted,' said the old man; 'go back to your buffaloes.'

babun also did not understand the acquittal of silindu. things appeared to be happening around him as if he were in a dream. the interpreter came and stood in front of him and said the following sentence very fast in sinhalese:

'you are charged under section 1010 of the penal code with housebreaking and theft of a box, clothing, and jewellery, in the house of the complainant, on the night of the 10th instant, and you are called on to show cause why you should not be convicted.'

'i don't understand, hamadoru.'

'you heard what the complainant said?'

'yes, hamadoru.'

'he charges you with the theft. have you anything to say?'

'i know nothing about this.'

'he says he knows nothing about this,' said the interpreter to the judge.

'any witnesses?' said the judge.

'have you any witnesses?' said the interpreter to babun.

'how can i have witnesses? no one will give evidence against the headman.'

'any reason for a false charge?' asked the judge.

'hamadoru, the headman is on very bad terms with me; he is angry with me because of my wife. he is angry with my wife's father. he wanted me to marry from another village. then he wanted me to give my wife to the mudalali and because i refused he is angry.'

'anything else?'

babun was silent. there was nothing more to say. he looked out through the great doors at the jungle. he tried to think where beddagama was; but, looking down upon it from that distance, it was impossible to detect any landmark in the unbroken stretch of trees.

'very well, mr. perera,' said the judge.

mr. perera got up again and began to examine babehami.

'how long have you been a headman?'

'fifteen years.'

'have you ever had a private case before?'

'no.'

'are you on bad terms with your brother-in-law?'

'no, but he is on bad terms with me.'

'how is that?'

'there is a government order that chenas are only to be given to fit persons. the accused is not a fit person: he could do work, but he is lazy. therefore chenas were refused to him. he thought that i had done this. it was a kachcheri order from the agent hamadoru. last week he was very angry and threatened me because of it. the mudalali heard him.'

'is the mudalali a friend of yours?'

'how could he be, aiya? he is a mahatmaya of kamburupitiya. i am only a village man. how could he be a friend of mine? he comes to the village merely to collect debts due to him.'

'and when he comes, you let him stay in the unoccupied house next to yours. otherwise you do not know him?'

'yes, that is true, aiya.'

'is the korala related to you?'

'no.'

'a friend of yours?'

'no; he was on bad terms with me. he said i troubled him and was a bad headman.'

mr. perera sat down.

'any questions?' said the judge.

'any questions?' the interpreter asked babun.

'i don't understand,' said babun.

'yakko,' said the interpreter angrily, 'do you want to ask complainant any questions?'

'what questions are there to ask? it is lies what he said.'

there was a pause while the judge waited for babun to think of a question. the silence confused him, and all the eyes looking at him. he fixed his own eyes on the jungle.

at last babun thought of a question.

'did you not ask me to give the woman to the mudalali?'

'no,' said babehami.

'did not the mudalali call her to go to his house?'

'i know nothing of that.'

'weren't you angry when i married the woman?'

'no.'

babun turned desperately to the judge.

'hamadoru,' he said, 'it is all lies he is saying.' the judge was looking straight at him, but babun could read nothing in the impassive face; the light eyes, 'the cat's eyes,' of the white hamadoru frightened him.

'is that all?' said the judge.

babun was silent.

'who is this mudalali?' said the judge sharply to babehami.

'fernando mudalali, hamadoru. he comes from kamburupitiya; he is a trader, he lends money in the village.'

'what's he doing in the village now?'

'he has come to collect debts.'

'when did he come?'

'about a week ago.'

'when is he going?'

'i don't know.'

'is he married?'

'i don't think so. i don't know.'

'why do you give him a house to live in?'

'hamadoru, the little hut was empty. he came to me and said: "arachchi," he said, "i must stay here a few days. i want a house. there is that hut of yours—can i live in it?" so i said, "why not?"'

'whose is the hut?'

'mine.'

'why did you build it?'

'it was built, hamadoru, for this brother-in-law of mine.'

'when?'

'i don't know.'

'what do you mean?'

'hamadoru, last year, i think.'

'but your brother-in-law lives with his father-in-law?'

'yes.'

'then why did you build him a house?'

'there was talk of his leaving the other people.'

'has the mudalali ever stayed in the village before?'

'no.'

'do you owe anything to him?'

'no.'

'next witness.'

babehami stood down and the korala entered the witness-box. he was examined by mr. perera. he told his story very simply and quietly. he had met babehami, who had told him that his house had been broken into and that a box had been stolen; he described the box and its contents; he suspected his brother-in-law, who had been seen going away from his house in the night, by the mudalali. the korala then described how he went into and searched the house, and how he found the cloths and jewellery which answered to babehami's previous description. he then produced them. the proctor examined him.

'are you on good terms with the complainant?'

'i am not on good terms or bad terms with him. i only know him as a headman.'

'do you complain of his troubling you?'

'i complained that he was a bad headman. he has troubled me with silly questions. he is an ignorant man.'

mr. perera sat down. 'any questions?' asked the judge.

'any questions?' asked the interpreter of babun.

babun shook his head. 'what questions are there?' he said.

'do you know this mudalali?' said the judge to the korala.

'i have seen him before in kamburupitiya.'

'have you seen him before in beddagama?'

'no.'

'did you know that he was there?'

'no.'

'do you know of any ill-feeling between complainant and accused?'

'no, i did not know the accused at all. i live many miles from beddagama.'

'next witness.'

fernando was the next witness. he wore for the occasion a black european coat, a pink starched shirt, and a white cloth. he was cool and unabashed. he told how he had gone out in the night for a call of nature, how he had heard a noise in the compound of the headman and had then seen babun come out carrying something and go with it into the jungle behind his own house.

'could you see what it was?' asked the proctor.

'not distinctly. he walked as if it were heavy. it was rather large.'

'how did you recognise him? can you swear it was he?'

'i can swear that it was the accused. i recognised him first by his walk. but i also saw his face in the moonlight.'

'are you on bad terms with accused? does he owe you money?'

'i am not on bad terms with him. i scarcely know him. he owes me for kurakkan lent to him. i had arranged to make him my gambaraya. all the villagers there owe me money.'

'how long have you been in the village?'

'about ten days. i am making arrangements for the recovery of my loans. last crop failed and therefore much is owed to me.'

the proctor sat down.

'any questions?' said the judge.

'any questions?' said the interpreter to babun. babun shook his head. 'it is lies they are telling,' he murmured.

'are you married?' the judge asked fernando.

'no.'

'you live with a woman in kamburupitiya?'

'yes.'

'how did you come to settle in the hut in beddagama?'

'i was getting into difficulties with my loans because the crop failed last year. i thought i must go to the village during the chena season and arrange for the repayment. i saw the hut empty there, and went to the headman and asked whether i might live there. he said "yes."'

'do you know the accused's wife?'

'i have seen her. their compound adjoins that of the hut. otherwise i do not know her.'

'next witness.'

the man who had found the box gave evidence of how and where he had found it. various villagers were then called, who identified the things found in silindu's hut and the box as having belonged to babehami. they all denied any knowledge of ill-feeling between babun and the headman or of any intimacy between the headman and fernando. this closed the case for the prosecution.

the judge then addressed babun in a speech which was interpreted to him. babun should now call any witnesses whom he might have. it was for him to decide whether he would himself go into the witness-box and give evidence. if he gave evidence he would be liable to cross-examination by babehami's proctor; if he did not, he (the judge) might draw any conclusion from his refusal.

babun did not really understand what this meant. he did not reply.

'well?' said the interpreter.

'i don't understand.'

'are you going to give evidence yourself?'

'as the judge hamadoru likes.'

'explain it to him properly,' said the judge. 'now, look here. there is the evidence of the korala that he found the things in your house. there is no evidence of his being a prejudiced witness. there is the evidence of fernando that he saw you leaving the complainant's hut at night. you say that fernando wants your wife, and that the headman is in league with him against you. at present there is no evidence of that at all. according to your story the things must have been deliberately put into your house by complainant, or fernando—or both. listen to what i am saying. have you any witnesses or evidence of all this?'

'hamadoru, how could i get witnesses of this? no one will give evidence against the headman.'

'i will adjourn the case if you want to call witnesses from the village.'

'what is the good? no one will speak the truth.'

'well, then, you had better, in any case, give evidence yourself.'

'get up here,' said the interpreter.

babun got into the witness-box. he told his story. the judge asked him many questions. then the proctor began cross examining.

'are you on bad terms with the korala? do you know him well?'

'i am not on bad terms. i scarcely know him.'

'do you know that fernando came to the village to recover money, that he has arranged to get the chena crops from many of the villagers in repayment of his loans?'

'yes.'

'did he ask you to act as overseer of those chenas, and promise you a share of the crop if you did?'

'yes.'

'because he thought you the best worker in the village?'

'yes, i think so.'

'when did this happen?'

'about a week ago.'

the proctor sat down. babun called no witnesses. there was a curious look of pain and distress in his face. the judge watched him in silence for some minutes, then he told the interpreter to call silindu. silindu was pushed into the box, the interpreter recited the words of the affirmation to him. he said, 'i do not understand, hamadoru.' it took some time to make him understand that he had only to repeat the words after the interpreter. he sighed and looked quickly from side to side like a hunted animal. the eyes of the judge frightened him. he was uncertain whether he was being charged again with the theft. he had not listened to what was going on after he had been sent out of the court. it occurred vaguely to him that the best thing would be to pretend to be completely ignorant of everything. he still thought of the wounded buffalo listening to the hunter crawling after him through the scrub: 'he doesn't move,' he muttered to himself, 'until he is sure: he stands quite stupid and still, listening always; but when he sees clear, then out he rushes charging.'

'stop that muttering,' said the judge, 'and listen carefully to what i ask you. you've got to speak the truth. there's no charge against you; you've got nothing to fear if you speak the truth. do you understand?'

'i understand, hamadoru,' said silindu. but he thought, 'they are cunning hunters. they lie still in the undergrowth, waiting for the old bull to move. but he knows: he stands quite still.'

'is there any reason why the headman should bring a false case against you and the accused?'

'i don't know, hamadoru.'

'you are not on bad terms with him personally.'

'i have nothing against him. he does not like me, they say.'

'why doesn't he like you?'

'hamadoru, how should i know that?'

'you have never had any quarrel with him?'

'no, hamadoru.'

'are you related to him?'

'i married a cousin of his wife.'

'the accused lives in your house? he is married to your daughter?'

'yes, hamadoru.'

'do you know of any quarrel between him and the headman?'

'how should i know that?'

'there was no quarrel at the time of the marriage?'

'they say this and that, but how should i know, hamadoru?'

'you know nothing about it yourself, then?'

'no, hamadoru.'

'do you know the mudalali fernando?'

'no, hamadoru.'

'you don't know him? doesn't he stay in the hut adjoining your compound?'

'i have seen him there. i have never spoken with him.'

'did you hear of anything between him and your daughter?'

'they talk, hamadoru.'

'what did they say?'

'they said he wanted my daughter.'

'who said? when?'

'this man' (pointing to babun).

'when?'

'three or four days ago.'

'you know nothing more, yourself, about this?'

'no, hamadoru.'

neither babun nor babehami's proctor asked silindu any questions; he was told to go away, and was pushed out of court by the peon. the case was over, only the judgment had to be delivered now. the judge leant back in his chair, gazing over the jungle at the distant hills. there was not a sound in the court. outside, down on the shore, the net had been hauled in, and the fish sold. not a living being could be seen now, except an old fisherman sitting by a broken canoe, and looking out over the waters of the bay. the wind had died away, and sea and jungle lay still and silent under the afternoon sun. the court seemed very small now, suspended over this vast and soundless world of water and trees. babun became very afraid in the silence. the judge began to write; no one else moved, and the only sound in the world seemed to be the scratching of the pen upon the paper. at last the judge stopped writing. he looked at babun, and began to read out his judgment in a casual, indifferent voice, as if in some way it had nothing to do with him. the interpreter translated it sentence by sentence to babun.

'there is almost certainly something behind this case which has not come out. there is, i feel, some ill-feeling between complainant and accused. the complainant impressed me most unfavourably. but the facts have to be considered. there can be no doubt that complainant's things were found hidden in the house in which accused lives, and that the box was found in the jungle behind the house. the evidence of the korala is obviously trustworthy on these points. there is clear evidence, too, that a hole had been made in complainant's house wall. then there is the evidence of the mudalali. as matters stand, it was for the accused to show that that evidence was untrustworthy. he has not really attempted to do this. his father-in-law's evidence, if anything, goes to show that there is nothing in complainant's story that fernando wanted to get hold of his wife. accused's defence implies that there was a deliberate conspiracy against him. i cannot accept his mere statement that such a conspiracy existed without any corroborating evidence of motive for it. he has no such evidence. even if there were ill-feeling over the refusal of a chena or something else, it would cut both ways; that is, it might have been accused's motive for the theft. i convict accused, and sentence him to six months' rigorous imprisonment.'

babun had not understood a word of the broken sentences of the judgment until the interpreter came to the last words, 'six months' rigorous imprisonment.' even then, it was only when the peon took hold of him by the arm to put him back again into the cage, that he realised what it meant—that he was to be sent to prison.

'hamadoru,' he burst out, 'i have not done this. i cannot go to prison, hamadoru! it is all lies, it is lies that he has said. he is angry with me. i have not done this. i swear on the beragama temple i have not done this. i cannot go to prison. there is the woman, hamadoru, what will become of her? oh! i have not done this. i have not.'

the proctors and idlers smiled; the peon and the interpreter told babun to hold his tongue. the judge got up and turned to leave the court.

'i am sorry,' he said, 'but the decision has been given. i treated you very leniently as a first offender.'

every one stood up in silence as the judge left the court. as soon as he had left, everything became confusion. proctors, witnesses, court officials, and spectators all began talking at once.

babun crouched down moaning in the cage. punchi menika began to shriek on the verandah, until the peon came out and drove her away. only silindu maintained his sullenness and calmness. he followed babun when he was taken away by the peon to the lock-up. at one point, when he saw that the peon was not looking, he laid his hand on babun's arm and whispered:

'it is all right, son, it is all right. don't be afraid. the old buffalo is cunning still. very soon he will charge.' he smiled and nodded at babun, and then left him to find punchi menika.

it took some time for silindu to find punchi menika. she had wandered aimlessly away from the court through the bazaar. silindu was now extraordinarily excited, he seemed to be almost happy. he ran up to her, took her by the hand, and began leading her quickly away out of the town.

'we must go away at once,' he said. 'there is much to think of and much to do. it is late, but we at least do not fear the jungle. the jungle is better than the town. we can sleep by the big trees at the second hill.'

'but, appochchi, my man. what will become of him? what will they do to him? will they kill him?'

'babun is all right. i have told him. the government do not kill. there is no killing here. but in the jungle, always killing—the leopard and jackal, and the hunter. yes, and the hunter, always killing, the blood of deer and pig and buffalo. and at last, the hunting of the hunter, very slow, very quiet, very cunning; and at the end, after a long time, the blood of the hunter.'

'but, appochchi, stop, do. what does it mean? they are taking him to prison. what will they do with him? shall we never see him again?'

'the hunter? yes, yes we shall see him again. very soon, but he will not see us?'

'what is this about the hunter? it is my man i am talking about.'

'oh, babun. he is all right. the white hamadoru said, "six months' rigorous imprisonment." i heard that quite clear at the end. "six months' rigorous imprisonment." it was all that i heard clearly. he is all right. there is no need for you to cry. they will take him away over there—(silindu pointed to the east)—there is a great house——i remember i saw it a long time ago when i went on a pilgrimage with my mother. they will put him in the great house, and give him rice to eat, so i hear. then he will come back to the village——but it will be after the hunting.'

'o appochchi, are you sure?'

'yes, child, all will be well after the hunting. but now i must think.'

punchi menika saw that it would be impossible to get anything more out of silindu in his present state. they walked on in silence. as they walked his excitement began to die down. he seemed to be thinking deeply. from time to time he muttered to himself. late in the evening they came to the big trees. silindu collected some sticks and made a fire. then he squatted down while punchi menika cooked some food which they had carried with them.

once or twice as they sat round the fire, after having eaten the food, punchi menika began to question silindu about babun, but he did not reply; he did not seem to hear her. her mind was numbed by the fear and uncertainty. she lay down on the ground, and an uneasy sleep came to her. suddenly she was aroused by silindu shaking her. she saw in the light of the fire how his face was working with excitement.

'child, there are two of them, two of them the whole time, and i never saw it.'

'what do you mean? where?'

'hunting me, child, hunting us all—me, you, and babun, and hinnihami. they killed hinnihami, your sister. i found her lying there in the jungle, dying. they did that. but they shall not get you. there are two of them. listen! i hear them crawling round us in the jungle, do you hear? now—there——! i thought there was only one, fool that i was—the little headman. but now i hear them both. the little headman first and then the other; the man with the smooth black face and the smile. it was he, wasn't it? didn't babun say so? he came to you and called you to come to his house. babun said so, i heard him. fernando—the mudalali—he wanted to take you away, but he couldn't. then he went to the headman and together they went to hunt us. isn't that true? isn't that true?'

'yes, appochchi, yes. it was because they wanted me for the mudalali. then they took the chena away and then they brought the case. they have taken my man from me, what shall i do?'

'hush, i am here. they shall do no more. listen, child. it is true that they have taken babun from you. for six months he will be over there. "very well," they think. they thought to send me there too, but the judge hamadoru was wise. "get out," he said to me. i did not understand then, and they laughed at me, but i understand now. well, those two will come back to the village. "the man," they think, "is away over there for six months, only the woman and the mad father are here. what can they do? the mudalali can now take the woman." is this true?'

'appochchi! it is what i fear. it is true.'

'it is true. but do not be afraid. the old father is there, but he is not altogether mad. the mudalali will come back to-morrow, perhaps, r the next day, with the headman. then they will begin again.'

'yes, yes. that is what i fear, appochchi. what can we do? we must go away.'

'hush, child. do not cry out. there is no need to be afraid. we cannot go away. how can we live away from the village and the jungle which we know. that is foolish talk. there in the town i do not understand even what they say to me; and the noise and the talking in the bazaar, and people always laughing, and the long hard roads and so many houses all together! how could we live there? but in the village i am not altogether mad. it is folly to talk of leaving it and the jungle. very soon i shall feel the gun in my hand again. then i shall be a man again, slipping between the trees—very quietly. ha, ha! we know the tracks, little arachchi. i remember, child, when i was but a boy, i went out once with my father for skins and horns. he was a good hunter and knew the jungle well. we went on and on—many days—round and round too—he leading, and i following. and at last we came to very thick jungle which not even he knew. and a sort of madness came on us to go on and on always, and we had forgotten the village and the wife and mother. the jungle was tall, dense, and dark, and the sky was covered with cloud—day after day—so that one could not tell the west from the east. and at last, when we had many skins and horns, my father stopped, and stood still in the track and laughed. "child," he said, "we are mad, we have become like the bear and the elephant; it is time to return to the village." then he turned round and began to walk. soon he stopped again, frowning. it was very dark. he stood there for a little, thinking; and then climbed a very big tree and looked around for a long time. then he came down and i saw from his face that he was very afraid. we said nothing, but started off again. for many peyas we walked and always through very thick jungle. again he stopped and climbed a tree and again, when he came down, there was great fear in his face. aiyo! that was the first time that i saw the fear, the real fear of the jungle; but then i did not understand. "appochchi," i said, "what is the matter? boy," he said, and his voice trembled; "we are lost. i do not know where we are, nor where the village lies, nor how we came, nor which is east and which is west. from the trees i can see nothing which i know, not even the hill at beragama, only the tops of the trees everywhere. therefore we must be very far from the village. i have heard of such things happening to very good hunters; but always before i have known the way. punchi appu must have died like that. wandering on and on until no powder is left and no food. aiyo! the jungle will take us, as they say." then i said, "appochchi, do not be afraid. i do not know which way we came, and i cannot tell just now which is west and which is east because of the clouds; but i know where the village lies. it is over there. can you lead the way?" he asked, and i said, "yes." then he said, "perhaps you know, perhaps you do not; but now one way is as good as another for me. you go first." at that i was pleased, and led on straight to where i knew the village must lie. for two days i led the way and my father said nothing, but i saw that he became more and more afraid. and on the third day, suddenly he cried out, "i know this: this track leads to the village. you are going right." it was a track i had never been on, but i still led the way; and on the fourth day we entered the village—well, what was i saying? yes, i know the tracks, even in those days when i was a boy i knew the jungle. but this time it requires clever hunting.'

'yes, appochchi, but what to do now, when they come back to the village?'

'those two! ah! now you listen, child. i have thought over it all this time and there is only one way. i shall kill them both.'

'kill them! o appochchi, no, no. you are mad!'

'am i mad? and what if i am? haven't they always called me mad, the mad vedda. well, now let them see if i am mad or not. have they not hunted me for all these years and am i always to go running like a stupid deer through the jungle? no, no, little arachchi; no, no. this time it is the old wounded buffalo. three times, four times that night in the hut when i saw it first i got up to get my gun and end it. and again, after the court, i would have done it, had i had a gun. but i thought—no, not yet, for once we must act cunningly, not in anger only. the buffalo's eye is red with anger, but he stands quiet until the hunter has passed. then he charges.'

'but, appochchi, you must not say that. you cannot do it. you must come away. they will take you and hang you.'

'what can i do? i cannot leave the village; i will not; i have told you that. there is no other way.'

'but what are you going to do?'

'ah! i must think. it needs cunning and skill first. i must think.'

'no, no, appochchi; no, no. it would be better to give me to the mudalali!'

'i would rather kill you than that. do you hear? i shall kill you if you go to the mudalali.'

'oh! oh! isn't it enough that they should have taken my man from me? and now more evil comes.'

'i tell you that i will end this now. now i shall sleep and to-morrow think of the way.'

silindu refused to listen any further to punchi menika's expostulations. he lay down by the fire and soon slept. next day, and throughout their journey to the village, he was very silent, and refused to discuss the subject at all with her. the lethargy habitual to him had left him completely. he was in an extraordinary state of excitement, goaded on perpetually by great gusts of anger against babehami and fernando. when he got back to his house he sat down in the compound in a place from which he could see the headman's house, and waited. he watched the house all day, and, when in the evening he saw the headman return, he smiled. then he got up and went into the hut. he took his gun which stood in the corner of the room, unloaded it, and reloaded it again with fresh powder and several big slugs. he examined the caps carefully, chose two, and put them in the fold of his cloth. then he lay down and slept.

next morning he was very quiet and thoughtful; but if any one had watched him closely, he would have seen that he was really in a state of intense excitement. after eating the morning meal he took his gun and went over to the headman's house. to the astonishment of babehami and his wife he walked into the house, put his gun in the corner of the room, and squatted down. babehami watched him closely for a minute or two; he felt uneasy; he noted that the curious wild look in silindu's eyes was greater than ever.

'well, silindu, what is it?' he said.

'arachchi, i have come to you about this chena. i cannot live without chena. you must give it back to me.'

'you heard in the court that the chena cannot be given to you. it has been given to appu. let us have an end of all this trouble.'

'yes, arachchi, that is why i have come to you. i want an end of all this trouble. do you hear that? an end now—to-day—of trouble. trouble, trouble, for years. we must end it to-day. do you hear?'

'what do you mean?'

'yes. what did i say? this, this. now, arachchi, that was nothing; do not mind what i said then. i was thinking, thinking. you know they call me mad in the village. well, i was thinking, you know, now that babun is over there for six months, i heard the judge hamadoru say that clearly, but to me he said merely, "clear out"—i was never a friend of that babun—all the trouble has come from him—he took punchi menika from me, and then hinnihami. i saw her lying in the jungle by the deer—what did we call him? kalu appu? punchi appu? yes, yes, punchi appu, that was long ago. they beat her. they threw stones at her. that was long ago—in the jungle. but now babun is away for six months. when he comes back, i shall say to him, "clear out," as the judge hamadoru said. they laughed at me then. a foolish old man, a mad old man, eh? ha, ha! little arachchi, little arachchi, you have laughed at me too—for years, haven't you, haven't you?'

'what is all this, silindu? what do you mean? i don't understand.'

'ah, arachchi, it is nothing. do not mind what i say. i do not know what i was saying. i am a poor man, arachchi, very ignorant, a little mad. but i am a quiet man; i have given no trouble in the village. you know that well, arachchi, don't you? i cannot speak well—like you, arachchi—in the court. but this is what i want to say. i do not like this babun; all the trouble has come from him. i am a quiet man in the village, you know that. i said to my daughter on the way here by the big palu-trees at the second hill—i said to her, "the man is now sent away; he will be over there for six months. he is a foolish man. it is he who has brought the trouble. the mudalali is a good man. the arachchi, too, is a good man. why should we quarrel with those two? there is no shame in your going to the mudalali." then my daughter said, "i will do as you think best, appochchi." do you understand now, arachchi?'

silindu stopped. the arachchi had been watching him narrowly. he began to understand the drift of silindu's incoherent words. but he still felt uneasy. as silindu spoke, his suppressed excitement became more and more apparent in his voice and words. but babehami knew well that he was mad, and that he was also wonderfully stupid. it was just like him to do things in this wild way. the more babehami thought of it, the more he became convinced that the conviction of babun had done its work. silindu and punchi menika had given in.

'yes, i think i understand,' he said. 'it is true that the mudalali will take your daughter. he is a good man; and the trouble came from babun, as you say.'

'that is it, arachchi, that is it. let the mudalali take punchi menika. my daughter cannot live with thieves now. she will go to the mudalali. do you understand?'

'yes, silindu. but it must be done quietly. she cannot go openly to his house, or there will be silly talk, after what was said in the court.'

'no, no. it must be done quietly, very quietly.'

'i will tell the mudalali, and she can come at night to him. afterwards, perhaps, she can live at the house; but at first she must go secretly at night.'

'ha, ha, arachchi. you are clever! how clever you are! you think of all things. yes, it must be all done quietly, quietly.'

'very well, silindu, i will tell the mudalali. it is a good thing to end all this trouble, like this.'

'yes, it is a very good thing to end it—like this. yes—like this, like this. but now the chena, arachchi. i cannot live without the chena. without a chena i must starve. you cannot see me starve. even now there is no grain in my house. you must give me the chena.'

babehami thought for a while, then he said:

'well, i will see what can be done; perhaps i can arrange with appu about the chena. we will see.'

'yes, arachchi, but let us have done with it once for all. the thing is settled. appu cannot be left there. come.'

'why, what do you want? don't you trust me?'

'yes, i trust you—why not, arachchi?—but i am afraid of appu. if he is left there to do work, he will refuse to go. he is in the chena now. it would be better to go and tell him at once.'

'i cannot go now. to-morrow, perhaps.'

'arachchi, it is but two miles. you said it is a good thing to end the trouble. let us settle it now, to-day, and the mudalali can have punchi menika to-night.'

babehami was silent. he disliked being hurried. on the other hand he would be very glad to see the whole matter settled. his action with regard to the chena troubled him because it was dangerous. he knew that the petition had been presented, and he was not at all sure that he would come off as well in an inquiry as he had in the court. it would also be wise to bind silindu to him by giving him back the chena, and not to risk his changing his mind about the mudalali and punchi menika. he argued a little more, and stood out half-heartedly against silindu's urgings to start at once. at last he gave in, and they started for the chena.

they followed a narrow jungle track which had been lately cleared. the tangle of shrubs and undergrowth and trees was like a wall on each side of the track. the headman walked first, and silindu, carrying his gun, followed. for the first three-quarters of a mile they walked in silence, except for a word or two which the headman shouted back to silindu without turning his head. silindu had fallen somewhat behind; he quickened his pace, and came up close to the headman; he was muttering to himself.

'what do you say?' asked babehami.

'what? was i talking? i do not know, arachchi. they say the hunter talks to himself in the jungle. it is a custom. have you ever been a hunter, arachchi?'

'no. you know that well enough.'

'oh yes. you are no hunter. who should know that better than i? but do they call me a good hunter, arachchi? skilful, cunning? do i know the tracks, arachchi?'

'of course, every one knows you to be the best hunter in the district.'

'aiyo, the best hunter in the district! and do you know, arachchi, that i am afraid of the jungle?'

'so they say. what are you afraid of?'

silindu began to speak with great excitement. as he went on his voice began to get shriller and shriller; it trembled with anger and fear and passion.

'i am afraid of everything, arachchi; the jungle, the devils, the darkness. but, above all, of being hunted. have you ever been hunted, arachchi? no, of course you are not a hunter, and therefore have never been hunted. but i know. it happens sometimes to the cleverest of us. the elephant, they say; but that i have never seen. but the buffalo: i have seen that—here—on this very track—before it was cleared—many years ago. the buffalo is stupid, isn't he, little arachchi? very stupid; he does not see—he does not hear—he goes on wallowing in his mud. and they hunt him year after year—year after year—he does not know—he does not see them—he does not hear them. do you know that? i know it—i am a hunter. then—then having crept close, they shoot him. it was near here. at first, crash—he tears away through the jungle, the blood flowing down his side. he is afraid, very afraid—and in pain. but the pain brings anger, and with anger, anger, arachchi, comes cunning. and now, arachchi, now comes the game, the dangerous game. the young men laugh at it, but the wise hunter would be afraid. there he stood, do you see?—there—under that maiyilittan-tree, head down, very still. and the hunter—fool, fool—crept after him through the undergrowth: there was no track then. ah, it was thick then: he could not see anything but the shrubs and thorns; he did not see the red eyes behind him nor the great head down. for the other was cunning now, cunning, and very angry. and when the hunter had gone on a little—just where you are now, arachchi—then—do you hear, little arachchi?—then, out and crash, he charged, charged, like this——'

babehami had at first hardly listened, but the fury and excitement of silindu had at last forced his attention. as silindu said the last words, babehami half stopped and turned his head: he just saw silindu's blazing eyes and foam on the corner of his lips; at the same moment he felt the cold muzzle of the gun pressed against his back. silindu pulled the trigger and babehami fell forward on his face. a great hole was blown in the back, and the skin round it was blackened and burnt; the chest was shattered by the slugs which tore their way through. the body writhed and twisted on the ground for a minute, and then was still. silindu kicked it with his foot to see whether it was dead. there was no movement. he reloaded his gun and turned back towards the village. his excitement had died down: the old lethargy was coming upon him again. he felt this himself and walked faster, muttering, 'even now it is not safe. there were two of them. there is still the other.'

when silindu got back to the village, fernando was in the headman's compound. when he saw silindu he came down towards the fence and called out to him, 'where is the arachchi? they say he went out with you.' silindu walked up towards the stile, and stopping levelled his gun at the mudalali. fernando stepped back, his mouth wide open, his eyes staring, his whole face contorted with fear. he cowered down behind the stile, stretching his hands vaguely out between the wooden bars, and shouted:

'don't shoot! don't shoot!'

the stile was little or no protection: between the two bottom bars silindu could see the mudalali's fat stomach and legs. he took careful aim between the bars and fired. fernando fell backwards, writhing and screaming with pain. silindu went and looked over the stile: at the same moment babehami's wife rushed out of the house. but he saw that his work had been accomplished; blood was pouring from the mudalali's stomach; his two legs and one of his hands were shattered. 'the trouble is ended,' he muttered.

he walked very slowly to his house. he put the gun in the corner of the room, thought for a minute, and then immediately left the hut. he saw that already there was a crowd of people in the headman's compound: the women were screaming. silindu turned into the jungle at the back of his house, and walking quickly cut across to the track which led to kamburupitiya.