But to Anak,--once the Prince Mat had told her she was pretty, when she had come down to the wharf to beg a small crocodile to bury underneath her grandmother's bungalow to keep off white ants, and her cheeks glowed yet under her brown skin at the remembrance. Noa had never told her she was beautiful!
A featherless hen was scratching in the yellow sand at her feet, and a brood of featherless chicks were following each cluck with an intensity of interest that left them no time to watch the actions of the lovers.
"Why did you come?" she asked in the soft liquid accents of her people.
There was an eagerness in the question that suggested its own answer.
"To bring a message to the punghulo," he replied, not noticing the coquetry of the look.
"Oh! then you are in haste. Why do you wait? My father is at the canal."
"It is about you," he went on, his face glowing. "The Prince is coming back, and we are to be married. My father, the captain, made bold to ask his Excellency to let the Prince be present, and he granted our prayer."
She turned away to hide her disappointment. It was the thought of the honor that was his in the eyes of the province, and not that he was to marry her, that set the lights dancing in his eyes! She hated him then for his very love; it was so sure and confident in its right to overlook hers in this petty attention from a mere boy, who had once condescended to praise her girlish beauty.
"When is the Prince coming?" she questioned, ignoring his clumsy attempt to take her hand.
"During the feast of Hari Raya Hadji," he replied, smiling.
She kicked some sand with her bare toes, amongst the garrulous chickens.
Her mood had changed. Her eyes were wide open, and her face all aglow. She was wondering if he would notice her above the bridesmaids,--if it was not for her sake he was coming?
And then her lover told her of the gossip of the palace,--of the Prince's life in the Sultan's court,--of his wit and grace,--of how he had learned English, and was soon to go to London, where he would be entertained by the Queen.
Above their heads the wind played with the tattered flags of the palms, leaving openings here and there that exposed the steely-white glare of the sky, and showed, far away to the northward, the denuded red dome of Mount Ophir.