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 daïs 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.
Before Silindu reached the Kamburupitiya track, he stopped and squatted down with his back against a tree. He wanted to think. After the wild excitement which had possessed him now for three days, a feeling of immense lassitude came upon him. His mind worked slowly, confusedly; he had no clear idea of where he was going, or of what he ought to do. He was very tired, very unhappy now; but he felt no regret for what he had done—no remorse for the blood of the Arachchi and of Fernando could trouble him. So far as they were concerned, he only felt a great relief.
He wanted to lie down and sleep. He lent back against the tree and began to doze, but he started up again immediately, listening for footsteps of pursuers. His first idea had been simply to run away into the jungle, to get away at any rate from the village. The hunt would begin; he would be hunted once again, he knew that. Then he thought of going east where the thick jungle stretched unbroken for miles. He could live there in some cave among the rocks; he could live there safe from his hunters for months. He had heard stories of other men doing this: strange men from other districts, whom the Government and the police were hunting down for some crime. They came down from the north, so it was said, flying to the sanctuary of the uninhabited jungle where they lay hidden for years; they lived alone in caves and in trees, eating leaves and wild fruit and honey, and the birds and animals which they managed to snare or kill. They were never caught; there were no villages in that wilderness from which information could come to the police. Sometimes one of the few bold hunters, who were the only people to penetrate these solitudes, would catch a glimpse of a wild, naked man in a cave or among the shadows of the trees. Some of them perhaps eventually, trusting to the lapse of time and to the short memory of the Government, went back to their villages and their homes. But most of them died of fever in the jungle to which they had fled.
If such a life were possible for men from distant villages, who did not know the jungle, it would be easy for Silindu. But as he squatted under the trees thinking of what he should do, a feeling of horror for such a life crept over him, and his repugnance to flying became stronger and stronger. He was very tired. What he desired—and the desire was sharp—was to rest, to be left alone untroubled in the village—in his hut, in his compound—to sleep quietly there at night, to sit hour after hour through the hot day under the mustard-tree in the compound. But in the jungle there would be no rest. It was just in order to escape that terror—the feeling of the hunted animal, the feeling that some one was always after him meaning evil—that he had killed the Arachchi and the Mudalali. And if he fled into the jungle now, he would have gained nothing by the killing. He would live with that feeling for months, for years, perhaps for ever. The hunt would begin again, and again it was he who would be the hunted.
Then he thought of returning to the village, but that too would be useless; he would get no peace there. He knew well what would happen. The Korala would be sent for; he would be seized, worried, bullied, ill-treated probably. That would be worse than the jungle. Suddenly the conviction came to him that it would be best to end it all at once, to go into Kamburupitiya and give himself up to the Ratemahatmaya and the white Hamadoru, to confess what he had done. He got up and started for the town immediately, keeping to the game tracks in the thick jungle, and avoiding the main tracks, for he did not wish to meet any one.
He walked slowly, following instinctively the tangled winding tracks. His lassitude and fatigue increased. He reached Kamburupitiya in the evening of the third day, and asked his way to the Ratemahatmaya's house.
When Silindu reached the Ratemahatmaya's house, no news of the murder had yet come to Kamburupitiya. He had walked slowly, but what was a slow pace for him was faster than that of the other villagers. He went into the compound, and walked cautiously round the house: in the verandah through the lattice-work he saw the Ratemahatmaya lying in a long chair. There was a table with a lamp upon it beside him. Silindu coughed. The Ratemahatmaya looked up and said sharply:
'Who is there?'
'Hamadoru, it is I. May I come into the verandah?'
'What do you want at this time? Come to-morrow. I can't attend to anything at night.'
'Hamadoru, I come from Beddagama. There has been a murder there.'
'Come in, then.'
Silindu came into the verandah and salaamed. He stood in front of the Ratemahatmaya.
'Hamadoru,' he said, 'I have killed the Arachchi and the Mudalali.'
The Ratemahatmaya sat up. 'You? What? What do you mean? Who are you?'
'I am Silindu of Beddagama. The Arachchi brought a false case against me and my son-in-law. May I sit down, Hamadoru? I am very tired. Babun was sent to prison by the judge Hamadoru, but to me he said, "Clear out." The case was false. They were trying to bring evil upon me and my daughter. The Mudalali wanted the girl. They were still trying to bring evil on me, so I said, "Enough." I took the gun and I went out with the Arachchi over there to the chena, and I shot him through the back. He is dead, lying there on the track. Then I went back to the village and shot the Mudalali in the belly through the stile. He was not dead then, but I looked over and saw the blood coming fast from the belly low down. He must be dead now.'
The Ratemahatmaya was not a brave man. As he listened to Silindu's short expressionless sentences, the bald description of the shedding of blood, given in the tired voice of the villager, he became afraid. He sat up in his chair looking at Silindu, who crouched in front of him, motionless, watching him. The light of the lamp fell upon the dark, livid face. It was the face of the grey monkeys which leap above the jungle among the tree-tops, and peer down at you through the branches; a face scarred and pinched by suffering and weariness and fear. It was as if something evil from the darkness, which he did not understand, had suddenly appeared in his quiet verandah. He looked out nervously over Silindu's head into the night: the light of the lamp in the verandah made it seem very dark outside. The Ratemahatmaya became still more afraid in the silence which followed Silindu's speech. He suddenly got up and shouted for his servant. There was the sound of movements in the back of the house, and a dirty servant boy, in a dirty vest and cloth, came blinking and yawning into the verandah. The Ratemahatmaya told him to stand by Silindu.
The Ratemahatmaya drew in a deep breath of relief. The beating of his heart became quieter.
'Now, yakko!' he said in a sharp angry tone, 'stand up.'
Silindu did not move; he looked up at the Ratemahatmaya with weary eyes and said, 'Hamadoru! I am very tired. For days now there has been no rest for me. Aiyo! I cannot remember how long it is now since I sat quiet in my compound. Let me sleep now. I have come straight to you and told you all. I thought at first I would run away. I could have lived out there for months, and you would not have caught me. But I was tired of all this: I am very tired. I thought: No. What is the good? Out there away from the village, and the hut, and the compound, and the daughter? It is the evil all over again. Aiyo! how tired I am of it. It is better to end it now. So I came here. I have told you no lies. What harm can I do now? Let me sleep here, and to-morrow you can do what you like to me.'
'Do you hear what I say? Stand up, yakko, stand up. Make him stand up.'
The servant boy kicked Silindu in the ribs, and told him to stand up. Silindu rose slowly.
'Now, then. You say you have killed the Arachchi and the Mudalali. Is that Fernando, the boutique-keeper?'
'Yes, Hamadoru, yes. Fernando, the boutique-keeper.'
'Fetch me ink and paper and a pen.'
The servant boy fetched the paper, ink, and pen. Meanwhile Silindu again squatted down. The Ratemahatmaya prepared to write.
'Didn't you hear me tell you to get up? Get up, yakko' (the servant boy kicked Silindu again). 'Now, then. When did you kill them, and how?'
'Three or four days ago. It was in the morning. I went with the Arachchi to the chena. I shot him through the back.'
'Where did you get the gun?'
'It was my gun. I had it in my house.'
'Was it licensed?'
'Yes, Hamadoru. I am very tired. What is the good of all these questions? I tell you I killed them both. Let me be. I cannot think of these things now. To-morrow, perhaps, to-morrow. Surely you have me here safe, and can do with me what you like to-morrow.'
The Ratemahatmaya was a self-important, fussy little man; he was also timid, and not fond of taking responsibilities. The sudden appearance of Silindu with this strange story out of the darkness had upset him. He was very annoyed when Silindu again sank down into a squatting position. 'Stand up, fellow,' he said. 'Stand up. Didn't you hear me, pariah? Stand up. You've got to answer my questions. Now, then. What did I ask last? Now, then——' He paused and thought for a moment. 'It is not, perhaps, too late. Perhaps I had better take him at once to the magistrate. Yes, that's better. You there get the bull put into the hackery. No, no, stop there; you must look after the man. Keep him there. Kalu Appu! Kalu Appu! Call Kalu Appu! Kalu Appu! Hoi! D'you hear? Wake up! Put the bull in the hackery and hurry up.'
At last another servant boy was woken up, the bull was put into the hackery. The Ratemahatmaya put on a dark coat, and, with many curses and complaints, got into the cart. Silindu followed slowly with the servant boy. They trailed wearily along the dark roads for three-quarters of a mile: then the cart stopped in the compound of the magistrate's bungalow. The Ratemahatmaya got out and went round to the back of the house to announce his arrival through the servants. Silindu squatted down near the hackery; he was no longer quite conscious of what was going on around him; after a while the Ratemahatmaya called to him to come round into the house, and the boy who had driven the bullock poked him up with the goad.
He was taken along a broad dark verandah, and suddenly found himself in a large well-lit room. Had it not been for the stupor of his fatigue he would have been very frightened, for he had never seen anything like this room before. It seemed to him to be full of furniture, and all the furniture to be covered with strange objects. In reality there was only a little travel-battered furniture in the barn-like white-washed room. There was matting on the floor, and rugs on the matting. An immense writing-table littered with letters and papers stood in front of the window. There were three or four tables on which were some ugly ornaments, mostly chipped or broken, and a great many spotted and faded photographs. A gun, a rifle, and several sentimental pictures broke the monotony of the white walls. The rest of the furniture consisted of a great many chairs, two or three lamps, and a book-case with thirty or forty books in it.
When Silindu entered the room with the Ratemahatmaya, the magistrate was lying in a long chair reading a book. He got up and went over to sit down at the writing-table. He was the white Hamadoru, whom Silindu had seen before in the court. He was dressed now in black, in evening-dress. He sat back in his chair and stared at Silindu in silence for a minute or two with his 'cat's eyes'; he looked cross and tired. Silindu had instinctively squatted down again. The Ratemahatmaya angrily told him to stand up. The magistrate seemed to be lost in thought: he continued to stare at Silindu, and as he did so the look of irritation faded from his face. He noted the hopelessness and suffering in Silindu's face, the slow weariness of effort with which he moved his limbs. 'He need not stand,' he said to the Ratemahatmaya. 'He looks damned tired, poor devil. You can take a chair yourself, Ratemahatmaya. God! This is a nice time to bring me work, and you seem to've brought me a miserable-looking wretch. You say it's a murder case?'