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Travers' bed was placed, while Lingard busied himself in pricking up the wick of the Cage lantern as if it had suddenly occurred to him that this, whatever happened, should not be a deed of darkness. Mr. Travers did nothing but turn his head to look over his shoulder. "One moment," said d'Alcacer, in a low tone and smiling at Mrs. Travers' agitation.
Those two men were much of the same build, though of course d'Alcacer, quietly alive and spiritually watchful, did not resemble Jorgenson, who, without being exactly macabre, behaved more like an indifferent but restless corpse. Those two could not be said to have ever conversed together. Conversation with Jorgenson was an impossible thing. Even Lingard never attempted the feat.
They were very wonderful. D'Alcacer thought these thoughts without bitterness and even without irony. With his half-secret social reputation as a man of one great passion in a world of mere intrigues he liked all women. He liked them in their sentiment and in their hardness, in the tragic character of their foolish or clever impulses, at which he looked with a sort of tender seriousness.
He propounded questions to Jorgenson much as a magician would interrogate an evoked shade, or gave him curt directions as one would make use of some marvellous automaton. And that was apparently the way in which Jorgenson preferred to be treated. Lingard's real company on board the Emma was d'Alcacer.
At times it appeared no more actual than a tradition; and she thought of herself as of some woman in a ballad, who has to beg for the lives of innocent captives. To save the lives of Mr. Travers and Mr. d'Alcacer was more than a duty. It was a necessity, it was an imperative need, it was an irresistible mission.
"Believe me, Mr. d'Alcacer understands you." "He is all right," interjected Lingard. "And he is innocent. I remember what you have said that the innocent must take their chance. Well, then, do what is right." "You think it would be right? You believe it? You feel it?" "At this time, in this place, from a man like you Yes, it is right."
Travers knows why. That, too, is engaged." "Always on your honour?" "I don't know. A promise is a promise." "Nobody can be held to the impossible," remarked d'Alcacer. "Impossible! What is impossible? I don't know it. I am not a man to talk of the impossible or dodge behind it. I did not bring you here." D'Alcacer lowered his head for a moment. "I have finished," he said, gravely.
Amongst them the form of d'Alcacer arose and moved. The systematic or else the morbid dumbness of Mr. Travers bored and exasperated him, though, as a matter of fact, that gentleman's speeches had never had the power either to entertain or to soothe his mind. "It's very nice of you. You have a great capacity for sympathy, but after all I am not certain on which side your sympathies lie.
D'Alcacer whispered: "It is a quarrel, and the picturesque man is angry. He is hurt." Mrs. Travers' fan rested on her knees, and she sat still as if waiting to hear more. "Do you think I ought to make an effort for peace?" asked d'Alcacer. She did not answer, and after waiting a little, he insisted: "What is your opinion? Shall I try to mediate as a neutral, as a benevolent neutral?
"Before you tell me anything let me ask you: 'Have you made up your mind?" He saw with much surprise a widening of her eyes. Was it indignation? A pause as of suspicion fell between those two people. Then d'Alcacer said apologetically: "Perhaps I ought not to have asked that question," and Lingard caught Mrs. Travers' words, "Oh, I am not afraid to answer that question." Then their voices sank.
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