Life—meaning the life which animates the bodies of other people—is not priced high by the natives of the East Coast; but eight or nine years ago, it was held even more lightly than it is at present. Murder was frequently done for the most trivial causes, and a Malay often drew a knife, when an Englishman would have been content to drop a damn. Young Chiefs were wont to take a life or two from pure galetÉ de coeur, merely to show that they were beginning to feel their feet, and were growing up brave and manly as befitted their descent. Such doings were not regarded altogether with disfavour by the boy's parents,—for, in a rude state of society, a Chief must be feared before he is loved, if his days are to be long in the land,—and some of the older men encouraged their sons to make a kill, much in the same spirit which animated parents in Europe half a century ago, when they put a finishing touch to the education of their children by sending them on the Grand Tour. Some fathers went even further than this, and RÂja Haji Hamid once told me that he killed his first man when he was a child of eleven or twelve, his victim being a very thin, miserable-looking Chinaman, upon whom his father bade him try his 'prentice hand. The Chinaman had done no evil, but he was selected because he was feeble and decrepit, and would show no fight even if attacked by a small boy with a kris. RÂja Haji told me that he botched the killing a good deal, but that he hacked the life out of the Chinaman at last, though the poor wretch, like Charles II., took an unconscionable time adying. Death to this Chinaman must have only been one degree less unpleasant than it was to the man who

The story of BÂyan the Paroquet, which I am about to tell, is another rather striking instance of the utter impunity with which the son of a Chief may take life, under the rule of a Native Prince in an Independent Malay State.

I first met BÂyan the Paroquet some six months before his death, when I was making my way across the Peninsula, vi the Slim Mountains, in 1887. We were camped for the night at a spot in the jungle on the PÊrak side of the range, in a natural refuge, which has probably sheltered wayfarers in these forests ever since primitive man first set foot in the Peninsula. The place is called BÂtu SÂpor—the Stone Lean-to Hut—in the vernacular, and the name is a descriptive one. It is situated on the banks of the BrÊseh, a little babbling stream which runs down to the Slim. The banks are high and shelving, but, on the top, they are flat, and it is here that the gigantic overhanging granite boulder stands, which gives the place its name. It is of enormous size, and is probably deeply embedded in the ground, for large trees have taken root and grow upon its upper surface. It projects some thirty feet over the flat bank, and then, shelving suddenly away to the ground, forms a stone roof, under which a score of men can camp with ease. The Pahang Prince, with whom I was travelling, unlike most of the men of that breed, was a very nervous person, and it was not without much persuasion that I had succeeded in inducing him to join me in my camp under the shadow of the great rock. He feared that it would topple over and crush us, nor was he completely reassured until Saiyid Jasin—the chief of his followers—a shrunken, wizened little man of many wiles, had propped the stone up with a slender sapling, over which he had duly recited certain magic incantations.

My attention was specially attracted to BÂyan the Paroquet, because he was the man who was told off to shampoo me after my march. He was a man of about forty years of age, thickset and large-limbed for a Malay, with a round bullet-shaped head, and a jolly smiling face.

Now, BÂyan the Paroquet was what is technically termed a Peng-lÎpor LÂra—or 'Soother of Cares,'—a class of men which is fast dying out in the Peninsula, as other mediÆval landmarks become effaced. These people are simply the wandering bards and minstrels, who find their place in an Independent Malay State as naturally as did their prototypes in the countries of Europe during the Middle Ages. They learn by rote some old-world tale, which has been transmitted by word of mouth through countless generations, and they wander from village to village, singing it for pay to the unlettered people, to whom these songs and stories represent the only literature which comes within their experience. Such minstrels are greatly loved by the villagers, who hold them in high honour, giving them hearty welcome, and the name by which they are known in the vernacular bears witness to the joy which they bring with them whithersoever they go. BÂyan's real name was Mat SÂman, but we always called him BÂyan—which means the Paroquet—because the tale which he sang told of the wonderful doings of a prince, who was transformed into a fabulous bird called the BÛrong Âgot, and whose attendants were the Paroquet and the Pied-robin (MÛrai). As he sat kneading me, as a baker kneads dough, he began to sing, and, that evening, and for many nights after, he sang his song to the RÂja and myself, to the huge delight of our people.

There was also in camp at this time a boy named To’ MÛda Long, who was the eldest son of one of the great up-country Chiefs. He was returning from Singapore with the RÂja, to whom he had fled after some escapade of his had excited the paternal wrath. He was a nice-looking youngster, with a slight lisp, and a manner as soft as floss-silk, and he was always smartly dressed in pretty Malay garments. We travelled together for more than three months, and I got to know him pretty well, and took something of a liking to him. I knew, of course, that his manner to his own people was not always as gentle as that which he assumed when in the presence of the RÂja or of myself, and during our progress through his father's district I heard many tales of his ill doings. To these, however, I attached but little importance, for Malays are very apt to malign a young Chief who, as they say, is born like a tiger cub, with teeth and claws, and may always be expected to do evil. Nevertheless, it would certainly never have occurred to me at that time that this mild-eyed, soft-spoken, silken-mannered, rather melancholy young man was capable of committing a peculiarly cruel, deliberate, and cold-blooded murder. Until one begins to understand them, one's Malay friends always seem to be breaking out in some new and unexpected place, to the intense mortification and surprise of people who attempt to judge Oriental character from a purely European standpoint.

The RÂja and I journeyed through Pahang with great state and pageantry, our party increasing in bulk as we went along, after the manner of a snowball. The RÂja and I were accommodated on a huge raft or floating house, and a perfect flotilla of boats accompanied us. At length, after many days spent in floating down the beautiful Pahang river, with the cool ripple of the water in our ears, and the ever-changing views to delight our eyes, we came in sight of Pekan, and, that night, we tied up about half a mile below the capital, at the landing-place which belonged to my travelling companion.

Thereafter followed negotiations, and interviews—made terrible by unearthly sweetmeats—much talk, and long waiting. Endless delays on the one side, stubborn patience that refused to be tired out on the other; and, as dawn was breaking on a certain Easter Sunday, I found myself, with a promise of a Treaty in my pocket, making my way out of the mouth of the river en route for Singapore. A fortnight later I was back at Pekan, to the no small disgust of my friend the SultÂn and his people, but now I had quarters assigned to me in the royal village, and accordingly I saw but little of the RÂja with whom I had formerly travelled, and the people who had accompanied him from the interior.

One day, about noon, I was aroused from sleep,—for, at Pekan, when first I lived there, all business was transacted at night, and no one of standing, who respected himself, thought of going to bed before eight o'clock in the morning, or of getting up till four in the afternoon. For Malays to wake one means that there is trouble, or that something untoward has occurred; for, in the Native States, slumber is respected,—as it ought to be, seeing how hard at times it is to come by,—and the European practice of being called in the morning, is a barbarous habit with which Malays have no sympathy. On this occasion there was a good reason for waking me, as news had just come in that To’ MÛda Long had killed BÂyan the Paroquet, and as this had occurred in the compound of the RÂja, with whom I had formerly travelled, and as he and the SultÂn were on bad terms, there was room for fear that serious political complications would ensue. I, therefore, had occasion to inquire into the details of this murder, and this is what I learned.To’ MÛda Long, BÂyan the Paroquet, and the rest of the up-country natives, who had accompanied us down river to Pekan, remained in the RÂja's enclosure to act as his body-guard and boat crew, and they had not been long at Pekan before the girls of the town began to send challenges to them, for Malay women dearly love a change, and these men were all strangers newly come among them. Nothing loth, the RÂja's followers plunged hotly into the love intrigues which formed the principal interest in life to the people of Pekan, and the usual jealousies began to cause quarrels among them. Now, it chanced that To’ MÛda Long and BÂyan both desired the same girl, and she, it would seem, preferred the Paroquet to the young Chieftain. Perhaps, his good voice, and the skill with which he sang the Song of the BÛrong Âgot, turned the balance in his favour, for Malay women love to be amused, and often favour those who are willing and able to amuse them. The girl was well born, and had many relatives, so To’ MÛda Long could not make an open scandal by attempting to seize her by force, but his desire for her was hot in his breast, and he decided that BÂyan the Paroquet should die.

It only remained to seek a pretext for a quarrel, and this was easily found. In the afternoon the RÂja's followers were accustomed to play sÊpak rÂga,—a game which consists in kicking a round basket-work ball, made of rattan, from one to the other, without letting it fall to the ground. When it became dark, the players adjourned to the RÂja's bÂlai or hall, and some of them forgot to let down their trousers, which had been hitched up above their knees to leave their legs free while playing. BÂyan was one of the older men among the RÂja's followers, and he, therefore, checked these youths; for, to enter a RÂja's bÂlai with bared knees is an act of rudeness. To’ MÛda Long knew the custom, and, of course, his knees were covered, but when BÂyan spoke he leapt up and said:

'Arrogant one! Dost thou alone know the custom of kings? Thou art over clever at teaching men!'

And, drawing his kris he made a murderous assault on BÂyan. The latter whipped his kris out, too, and it would have gone ill with To’ MÛda Long, for BÂyan was a strong man and knew the use of his weapon, had not the older men, who were present, interfered to separate the combatants.

Next morning, BÂyan arose betimes, and, taking the long bamboos, in which water is stored and carried, he went down to the river to have his morning bath, and to fetch water for his house. He must have attached but little importance to the incident of the previous afternoon, for he went to the river unarmed, which was unusual in those days even for men who had no especial cause of quarrel. A Malay often judges the courage of his fellows by whether or no they are careful to be never separated from their weapons, and Europeans who, in humble imitation of Gordon, prefer to go about unarmed, make a great mistake, since a Malay is apt to interpret such action as being dictated by cowardice. BÂyan bathed in the river, filled his bamboos, and began to carry them to his house; but To’ MÛda Long had been watching his opportunity, and he and two of his followers, all fully armed, had taken up a position in the middle of the path, by which BÂyan must pass back to his house.

'Thou wast over arrogant to me last night,' said To’ MÛda Long as BÂyan approached, 'and now I will repay thee!'

'Have patience, To’ MÛda, have patience,' said BÂyan. 'Thy servant did not speak to thee; it was the boys who were unmannerly, and thy servant, being an old man, did reprove them!'

'It is not for the like of thee to reprove men, and the said boys are my people, the sons of my loins. I will cover their shame!' said To’ MÛda Long, for the wolf was determined to pick a quarrel with the lamb, bleat he never so wisely.

'Have patience, To’ MÛda!' again cried poor BÂyan, but the words were hardly out of his mouth before To’ MÛda Long struck at him with his spear, but missed him. Then, as BÂyan retreated step by step, defending himself with the clumsy bamboo from the deft spear thrusts, no more words passed between them.

At last the spear went home. 'BÂsah! BÂsah! I have wetted thee!' cried To’ MÛda Long, and he went in at his enemy, kris in hand, BÂyan beating him about the head with the now empty bamboo. When he got to close quarters, the deed was soon done, and the body of BÂyan the Paroquet, with seventeen rending wounds upon it, lay stark and hideously staring at the pure morning sky.

There was loud talk of blood-money, and equally loud talk of reprisals, but nothing came of it; and though I often meet To’ MÛda Long, who is as soft spoken and as gentle in his manners as ever, BÂyan's death was never revenged, and the fact that he ever lived and sang is now well-nigh forgotten, even by those who knew him, and loved to hear his tales.