"I want to see your face." With obliging alacrity Babalatchi put some dry brushwood on the coals from a handy pile, keeping all the time a watchful eye on Willems.
When he straightened himself up his hand wandered almost involuntarily towards his left side to feel the handle of a kriss amongst the folds of his sarong, but he tried to look unconcerned under the angry stare.
"You are in good health, please God ?" he murmured.
"Yes!" answered Willems, with an unexpected loudness that caused Babalatchi to start nervously.

"Yes!.

.

.

Health!.