As soon as the commotion produced by that lamentable cry had subsided, Mr. Greveland began to question the prisoner.  
“What is your name?” he asked.
 
The djaksa interpreted the question to the accused man in Javanese. [418]
 
The prisoner with his head bent forward and his eyes steadfastly fixed on the floor replied:
 
“Setrosmito, kandjeng toean.”
 
“Where were you born?”
 
“At Kaligaweh, kandjeng toean.”
 
“How old are you?”
 
“I don’t know, kandjeng toean.”
 
The djaksa turned to the clerk of the court and said, “Put him down about forty years of age.”
 
There was, in reality, but little need for all this interrogatory; for the particulars had been already noted down during the course of the preliminary examinations. The questions were, in fact, put merely pro forma.
 
“Where do you live?” continued the president.
 
“In the prison, kandjeng toean,” innocently answered the prisoner.
 
“Aye! but I mean before you went to prison?”
 
“In the dessa Kaligaweh, kandjeng toean.”
 
“Setrosmito,” continued the president, “do you know why you have been brought here before us?”
 
“Yes, kandjeng toean.”
 
“Let us hear it then.”
 
“They tell me I have smuggled opium, and that I have killed a Chinaman,” quietly replied the Javanese, without so much as raising his eyes from the floor.
 
A murmur of indignation ran through the pandoppo at the apparent callousness of the reply.
 
“Silence!” cried the president.
 
“Silence in the court!” vociferated the usher.
 
“Do you plead guilty to these charges?” asked Mr. Greveland.
 
The djaksa interpreted the question; but the prisoner hesitated—he seemed not to know what he ought to say. He cast a furtive sidelong glance at August van Beneden, who reassured him by saying:
 
“Speak up, Setrosmito, speak up, tell the simple truth.”
 
“No, kandjeng toean,” said he, “I am not guilty of smuggling. I never touch the bedoedan. I have killed a Chinaman because he ill-treated my child.”
 
The Javanese spoke in a very low tone of voice—he was abashed before that large audience and before his chiefs. He spoke moreover in the Javanese tongue, which hardly any one present could understand, so that his answer produced no impression whatever. [419]
 
“Now, listen attentively, Setrosmito,” said the president. “The charges against you, your own statements, and the evidence of the witnesses, will be read out to you.”
 
“Yes, kandjeng toean.”
 
Thereupon the clerk of the court rose, and in the sing-song monotonous tone of voice peculiar to his class, began to read all the depositions and the whole body of evidence which the preliminary examinations had produced. He read very fast, very indistinctly, and in so low a tone of voice that not a soul in the pandoppo, not even the president himself, who was seated close beside him, could understand what he said. The prisoner, of course, could not catch a single word; for the papers were all drawn up in Malay, a language of which the simple dessa-labourer knows little or nothing. From time to time this dreamy flow of words was interrupted by the djaksa, whose duty it was to translate to the prisoner the more important parts of the case. But even the interpretation was got through at such a pace that it was very doubtful whether the prisoner was any the wiser for the djaksa’s translation.
 
He sat squatting on the floor without changing his attitude, and kept his eyes rivetted on one spot; his hands, fumbling the while at the skirts of his jacket, betrayed his extreme agitation. At every explanation of the djaksa, whether he understood it or not, he mumbled the invariable Javanese answer:
 
“Yes, kandjeng toean.”
 
This reading of the evidence was a most dreary and tedious business. Even the members of the council at the table kept up a whispered conversation, which the president had repeatedly to interrupt with an impatient gesture and a stern look of displeasure.
 
The audience, however, did not confine themselves to mere whispers. No one spoke out aloud; but gradually there arose a humming and buzzing—an indescribable rumour, broken now and again by some lady’s giggle—which sadly interfered with the majesty of the law.
 
In vain did the usher exert the full power of his lungs. His shout of “silence” produced its effect for the moment; but it was only for the moment. The instant after the universal buzzing began again as if a huge swarm of bees had taken possession of the pandoppo.
 
“What an insufferable bore that clerk is to be sure!” simpered Mrs. van Gulpendam.
 
“He leaves the reading to his nose,” remarked Mr. Thomasz. [420]
 
“Mind your chief does not hear you,” said one of the ladies.
 
“Pray don’t tell him!” cried Thomasz, “he does not know he talks through his gable—if he did, he might try and improve.”
 
“Be quiet, Mr. Thomasz,” said Laurentia, with a burst of laughter, “you really must not make us laugh so.”
 
“What? I, madam?” asked the clerk.
 
“You? Of course. The Resident calls you a dry comical fellow.”
 
“How, madam, do you mean to say the Resident applies such terms to me?”
 
“Yes, he does—don’t you like them?”
 
“Madam,” replied the assistant-clerk, “professionally I cannot say that I do. Just fancy, ladies,” he continued, turning to the others, “a comical clerk, who ever heard of such a thing?”
 
He uttered these words with a serio-comic air, so irresistibly droll, that the ladies fairly shook with suppressed laughter.
 
“Oh—do hold your tongue, Mr. Thomasz!” Laurentia at length managed to say, “you see how savagely Mr. Greveland is glaring at you.”
 
“What a time that mumbler takes to be sure!” said a voice almost aloud in the centre of the pandoppo.
 
“If one might only light a cigar to while away the time,” said another.
 
“Or get a glass of bitters!”
 
“I was asking an oppasser just now to fetch me a glass of beer—my throat is as dry as a lime-kiln,” said another voice in an audible whisper.
 
“Well—and did you get it?”
 
“Don’t I wish I may get it? ‘Not allowed, sir,’ was all I could get out of that canary-bird, who looked as black as a three days’ west monsoon.”
 
“Shall we go to the club, it is close by?” asked another.
 
“Yes, if I thought that muttering would last much longer.”
 
“Silence! silence!” shouted the usher, “respect for the court!”
 
That respect for the court was all very well; but the good people of Santjoemeh had gathered together for the sake of amusement, and they were being bored almost to death.
 
At length the clerk had got to the end of his dreary tale—at length the djaksa had, for the last time, said to the prisoner: “Do you understand, Setrosmito?” And at length, for the last [421]time, the latter had replied in his monotonous drone the same words:
 
“Yes, kandjeng toean.”
 
Then came the usual shuffling of feet and a general murmur of satisfaction which, however, the usher soon managed to subdue.
 
As soon as silence had been restored, the head djaksa rose from his chair and, in his capacity of public prosecutor, he began to open the case for the Government.
 
His speech was remarkably well put together, and worked out with much skill and care; but it could have an interest only for those who knew nothing of the other side of the case.
 
It was, in fact, little more than a statement of what had occurred, strictly on the lines of the report of the bandoelan Singomengolo.
 
The public prosecutor took the case of opium smuggling as conclusively proved. He dwelt at great length upon the cunning displayed in hiding the forbidden wares under the pandan-mat of the couch—the opium itself and the box which had contained it lay before him on the table as convincing proofs of the truth of what he advanced.
 
Then, in very forcible words, he went on to dilate upon the craftiness of these opium smugglers; and tried to show how, in their endeavours to cheat the revenue, they gave evidence of much cleverness; but generally over-reached themselves and proved, by the tricks they employed, their utter want of honesty and moral sense.
 
Mas Wirio Kesoemo waxed well-nigh eloquent when he pointed out how the passion for opium was, hand over hand, gaining ground in Java; and how this debasing passion was promoted and fostered chiefly by the abominable smuggling trade. He dwelt, in glowing terms, upon the absolute necessity of repressing, by every means the law would allow, that dirty underhand traffic which was the fruitful source of so much misery.
 
“Picture to yourselves,” he cried, “the amount of injury which this nefarious trade is inflicting upon the realm beyond the ocean, upon all India, and especially upon our own beloved island of Java. Think of the millions which are lost—the millions!—I might say the tens of millions, and then calculate the amount of good which these tens of millions might produce if they were allowed to flow quietly and without check into the national treasury!” [422]
 
At these words the djaksa, who up to that time had been addressing the members of the council, turned to the public, knowing well that this argumentum ad crumenam would tickle the public ear. And he was not mistaken. The audience consisted for the most part of Dutchmen, and the tinkle of these tens of millions had a metallic sound which was strangely fascinating to the hearers. A distinct murmur of approbation arose, many a head nodded in silent assent and many a voice muttered:
 
“Hear, hear! If we could but be delivered from that abominable smuggling!”
 
These evident tokens of sympathy did not escape the djaksa’s watchful eye, and Mas Wirio Kesoemo did not let so favourable an opportunity pass without expressing the fervent hope that the judges would not fail, by their sentence in the present case, to crush the foul reptile which battened upon the national prosperity. He called upon them, therefore, to pass upon the prisoner, who not only sat there accused of the heinous crime of smuggling; but was charged also with the additional offence of murder, the heaviest sentence which the law would allow. By doing so, he added, they would earn for themselves the cordial thanks of the island of Java, and establish a claim upon the gratitude of the entire Dutch nation.
 
For a moment it seemed as if the greater part of the company assembled in the pandoppo, would have given vent to their feelings of satisfaction by cheering and clapping of hands—one cry of “bravo!” was distinctly heard; but the usher repressed all such manifestations with his repeated shout of “Silence—silence in the court!”
 
The head djaksa now proceeded with the second part of his case against Setrosmito, that, namely, of having murdered a Chinese bandoelan; a charge which was inseparably connected with the former one of opium smuggling.
 
The entire assembly hung breathless on his lips, as he described how Setrosmito had resisted the searching of his house; how, when the fatal box had been discovered, he had hurled an opprobrious name at Singomengolo and called him a “dirty dog;” how he had, thereupon, seized his kris and how, when the chief bandoelan fled back in terror, he had flung himself upon an inoffensive and defenceless Chinaman, and had drawn the wavy blade of his knife across his throat, while a stream of blood deluged murderer and victim alike. This description, graphic almost to brutality in its details, made a powerful impression [423]upon the audience. One of the ladies present screamed and fainted away, and had to be carried off insensible. This episode caused considerable commotion, and Setrosmito cast an anxious glance behind him to see what was going on.
 
“Silence! silence!” bawled the usher.
 
As soon as order had been, in some measure, restored, Mas Wirio Kesoemo proceeded to dwell on the increasing temerity of the opium smugglers, who scrupled not to take a human life rather than risk the loss of their smuggled wares. He insisted upon the necessity of inflicting the extreme penalty for the protection of the police in the execution of their arduous duties; and he ended his speech by demanding that the murderer be condemned to death by hanging, or, if the defence could establish any extenuating circumstances, that the sentence should be at least twenty years of penal servitude with hard labour.
 
A deep silence reigned in the pandoppo as the djaksa resumed his seat, one might have heard a pin drop, so intensely was that frivolous crowd impressed by this fearful demand for a human life. A kind of spell lay upon all, every heart seemed compressed as in a vice. A general sigh of relief was heard when the president broke the silence:
 
“Setrosmito,” asked Mr. Greveland, “have you heard what the public prosecutor has said?”
 
The prisoner looked up with a puzzled expression at the speaker; but he did not answer a word. The entire case had been conducted in Malay, of which he did not understand a single word. The expression of the poor fellow’s face showed that plainly enough. The president repeated his question, which the djaksa, thereupon, interpreted to Setrosmito. The prisoner cast one look upon August van Beneden, and upon a nod from the latter, answered:
 
“Yes, kandjeng toean.”
 
“Have you anything to say in reply?” asked the president.
 
Another look at his counsel, and then the prisoner answered:
 
“No, kandjeng toean.”
 
A cry of indignation and horror arose in the pandoppo at the seeming callousness of the answer.
 
“Silence, gentlemen! Silence in the court!” shouted the usher.
 
As soon as he could make himself heard, Mr. Greveland said:
 
“I call upon the counsel for the defence.”
 
“At length!” muttered Grashuis, with a deep sigh. [424]
 
“Now we shall hear something very fine!” cried Mrs. van Gulpendam, with a sneer; but in a voice quite loud enough to reach the young lawyer’s ears.
 
Van Beneden very calmly rose from his chair, wiped his forehead, and then, in a clear voice which could distinctly be heard through the entire pandoppo, he said:
 
“The trial which is now occupying the attention of this honourable court is one which is indigenous to the soil of Java. I might say, indeed, that in no other spot in the world could such a case arise. There can be nothing simpler, nothing more plain than the demand of the prosecution! Opium has been smuggled, some one must be punished for it. A man has lost his life, some one must hang for the murder. Undoubtedly the law must have its course, and the criminal ought to be punished. We are living here in the East, in the home of the law of retaliation—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth! This, gentlemen, is a hard law unworthy of our Western civilisation; but against it we have the right of inquiry, and our milder code allows every accused man the right of defence. It is of this right of defence, that, in behalf of the unhappy man sitting there at your feet and awaiting his fate at your hands, I now intend to avail myself.
 
“Now, if the facts were really such as the prosecution has represented them to be—why then there would be nothing for me to do than to commend the prisoner to the clemency of the court, or rather I should say, that I would not, in that case, have undertaken at all the defence of a cause which my conscience could not justify. I take, therefore, a totally different view of the matter; and am prepared to lay before you the grounds upon which I have arrived at a wholly different conclusion. I beg that you will lend me your attentive hearing.
 
“But, before entering into the details of this case,” continued the young lawyer, in a voice which clearly betrayed emotion, “allow me to pay my tribute to the zeal, the devotion, and the undoubted ability of a man concerning whom I must not speak without reticence, inasmuch as I am bound to him in the straitest bond of friendship.
 
“Mr. William Verstork was controller of the district of Banjoe Pahit when the facts occurred which now claim our attention. Independently altogether of the action of the Government, he undertook the task of continuing the investigations which he had initiated. The result of his inquiry he has submitted to the proper authorities. I ask, why were not these papers [425]laid before us? Allow me, gentlemen, to pass very lightly over this most important omission. I could not enter into that subject without stirring up a pool of iniquity which is immediately connected with the opium question; and I freely confess that I shrink from thus occupying your valuable time. For the defence of the unhappy man for whose interests I am responsible, it will suffice if I now tell you that the documents to which I allude exist beyond the possibility of doubt or denial; and that I have here, lying on the table before me, the authentic copies properly attested and legalised by the Governor of Atjeh and by the Chief Justice at Batavia.
 
“You all,” continued van Beneden with a courteous gesture, addressing the public as well as the bench, “you all know William Verstork, and I would not even mention the noble qualities of that zealous public servant—there would be no need of doing so—were it not that our president, Mr. Greveland, has but lately arrived at Santjoemeh. The interests of my client demand that I should clearly point out to him that the writer of these documents is universally known as an upright man, who, in his official capacity, has won for himself the esteem and affection of all, natives as well as Europeans, that have come into contact with him. That he is a most dutiful son who, for the sake of his mother and his younger sisters and brothers, has made the greatest sacrifices; and that, before this large audience I assert, without the slightest fear of contradiction, that a more single-minded and honourable man has never trodden the soil of Netherland’s India.”
 
A burst of applause, cheering and clapping of hands followed immediately upon this general appeal. Mrs. van Gulpenda............