"My father is sick," said Abas in a surly tone, and again his visitors exchanged glances.
"What is that patch of blood in the lâlang grass before the house?" asked the Pĕnghûlu conversationally, after a slight pause.
"We killed a goat yesternight," Abas answered.
"Have you the skin, O Abas?" enquired the Headman. “I am renewing the faces of my drums and would fain purchase it."
"The skin was mangy and therefore we cast it into the river," said Abas.
The conversation languished while the Pĕnghûlu's followers pushed the clumsy wooden betel-box along the mat covered floor from one to the other, and silently prepared their quids.
"What ails your father?" asked the Pĕnghûlu presently, returning to the charge.
"He is sick," a rough voice said suddenly, speaking from the curtained doorway which led into the inner apartment.
It was the elder of the two sons, Abdulrahman, who spoke. He held a sword in his hand, a kris was stuck in his girdle, and his face wore an ugly look. His words came harshly and gratingly with the foreign accent of the Korinchi people. He continued to speak, still standing near the doorway.
"My father is sick, O Pĕnghûlu," he said. "Moreover, the noise of your words disturbs him. He desires to slumber and be still. Descend out of the house. He cannot see you. Attend to these my words."
