To the right--and some small distance away from the large house--a little hut of reeds, covered with mats, had been put up for the special convenience of Omar, who, being blind and infirm, had some difficulty in ascending the steep plankway that led to the more substantial dwelling, which was built on low posts and had an uncovered verandah.

Close by the trunk of the tree, and facing the doorway of the hut, the household fire glowed in a small handful of embers in the midst of a large circle of white ashes.

An old woman--some humble relation of one of Lakamba's wives, who had been ordered to attend on Aissa--was squatting over the fire and lifted up her bleared eyes to gaze at Babalatchi in an uninterested manner, as he advanced rapidly across the courtyard.
Babalatchi took in the courtyard with a keen glance of his solitary eye, and without looking down at the old woman muttered a question.

Silently, the woman stretched a tremulous and emaciated arm towards the hut.
Babalatchi made a few steps towards the doorway, but stopped outside in the sunlight.
"O! Tuan Omar, Omar besar! It is I--Babalatchi!" Within the hut there was a feeble groan, a fit of coughing and an indistinct murmur in the broken tones of a vague plaint.

Encouraged evidently by those signs of dismal life within, Babalatchi entered the hut, and after some time came out leading with rigid carefulness the blind Omar, who followed with both his hands on his guide's shoulders.
There was a rude seat under the tree, and there Babalatchi led his old chief, who sat down with a sigh of relief and leaned wearily against the rugged trunk.