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His greatest pride lay in his profound conviction of its faithfulness in the deep sense of his unerring knowledge of its treachery. The little brig Flash was the instrument of Lingard's fortune.
May evil befall thee and the strangers! May they never find favour! May they be pursued with swords! I am old. I am old. There is no good in strangers! O girl! May they burn." "Welcome," repeated Belarab, gravely, and looking straight into Lingard's eyes. Lingard spent six days that time in Belarab's settlement.
"You are always coming to me with those lives and those deaths in your hand." "Yes, it's too much for you," was Lingard's undertoned comment. "You could be no other than true. And you are innocent! Don't wish me life, but wish me luck, for you are innocent and you will have to take your chance."
"Captain Jorgenson has always looked upon me as a nuisance. Perhaps he had made up his mind to get rid of me even against your orders. Is he quite sane?" She released her firm hold of that iron forearm which fell slowly by Lingard's side. She had regained fully the possession of her personality.
He let the gun fall between his knees, and moving back on his seat, leaned his head against the wall of the hut, crossing his arms on his breast. "A good gun," went on Babalatchi. "Carry far and true. Better than this there." With the tips of his fingers he touched gently the butt of a revolver peeping out of the right pocket of Lingard's white jacket.
As time wore on, and nothing happened, at least nothing that one could hear of, the excitement died out. Lingard's new attitude was accepted as only "his way." There was nothing in it, maintained some. Others dissented. A good deal of curiosity, however, remained and the faint rumour of something big being in preparation followed him into every harbour he went to, from Rangoon to Hongkong.
By Lingard's advice he was left alone, notwithstanding his rebellious mood; and for many days he lived undisturbed amongst his wives and retainers, cherishing that persistent and causeless hope of better times, the possession of which seems to be the universal privilege of exiled greatness. But the passing days brought no change.
Then two shadowy forms and two red sparks moved backward and forward on the poop. A larger, but a paler and oval patch of light from the compass lamps lay on the brasses of the wheel and on the breast of the Malay standing by the helm. Lingard's voice, as if unable altogether to master the enormous silence of the sea, sounded muffled, very calm without the usual deep ring in it.
But I wonder at my own courage when I think of the confession I have to make." She advanced, laid her hand on Lingard's shoulder and spoke earnestly. "I shuddered at the thought of meeting you again. And now you must listen to my confession." "Don't say a word," said Lingard in an untroubled voice and never taking his eyes from her face. "I know already." "You can't," she cried.
You know, when you sent him to talk to me that evening you left the yacht, he came with a loaded pistol in his pocket. And now he has gone and done it." "Done it?" repeated Mrs. Travers blankly. "Done what?" She snatched from Lingard's unresisting palm the sheet of paper. While she was smoothing it Lingard moved round and stood close at her elbow.
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