|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmdvt
 

ings just so," returned
Jorgenson. "Anyway there is a devil in such work--drop it!"
"Look here," said Lingard, "I took these people off when they
were in their last ditch. That means something. I ought not to
have meddled and it would have been all over in a few hours. I
must have meant something when I interfered, whether I knew it or
not. I meant it then--and did not know it. Very well. I mean it
now--and do know it. When you save people from death you take a
share in their life. That's how I look at it."
Jorgenson shook his head.
"Foolishness!" he cried, then asked softly in a voice that
trembled with curiosity--"Where did you leave them?"
"With Belarab," breathed out Lingard. "You knew him in the old
days."
"I knew him, I knew his father," burst out the other in an
excited whisper. "Whom did I not know? I knew Sentot when he was
King of the South Shore of Java and the Dutch offered a price for
his head--enough to make any man's fortune. He slept twice on
board the Wild Rose when things had begun to go wrong with him. I
knew him, I knew all his chiefs, the priests, the fighting men,
the old regent who lost heart and went over to the Dutch, I
knew--" he stammered as if the words could not come out, gave it
up and sighed--"Belarab's fyilai：
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|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmdej