Here We Waited For Him, Two Files Of
Policemen Being Drawn Up As A Guard Of Honor.
He came out of the
women's house very actively, shook hands with each of us (obnoxious
custom!), and passed through the lines of police round to the other
side of his house into the porch, the floor of which was covered with
fine matting nearly concealed by handsome Persian rugs.
The Sultan sat on a high-backed, carved chair or throne. All the other
chairs were plain. The Resident sat on his right, I on his left, and on
my left the Rajah Moussa, with other sons of the sultan, and some
native princes. Mr. Syers acted as interpreter. Outside there were
double lines of military police, and the bright adjacent slopes were
covered with the Sultan's followers and other Malays. The balcony of
the audience-hall, which has a handsome balustrade, was full of Malay
followers in bright reds and cool white. It was all beautiful, and the
palms rustled in the soft air, and bright birds and butterflies flew
overhead, rejoicing in mere existence.
If Abdulsamat were not Sultan, I should pick him out as the most
prepossessing Malay that I have seen. He is an elderly man, with
iron-gray hair, a high and prominent brow, large, prominent, dark,
eyes, a well-formed nose, and a good mouth. The face is bright, kindly,
and fairly intelligent. He is about the middle height. His dress
became him well, and he looked comfortable in it though he had not worn
it before.
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