norant Malay men. The wisdom of white
Tuans is great. They think that by the power of many speeches the tiger
may--" He broke off and in a crisp, busy tone said: "The rudder dwells
safely under the aftermost seat should Tuan be pleased to sail the boat.
This breeze will not die away before sunrise." Again his voice changed
as if two different souls had been flitting in and out of his body. "No,
no, kill the tiger and then the stripes may be counted without fear--one
by one, thus."

He pointed a frail brown finger and, abruptly, made a mirthless dry
sound as if a rattle had been sprung in his throat.

"The wretches are many," said Lingard.

"Nay, Tuan. They follow their great men even as we in the brig follow
you. That is right."

Lingard reflected for a moment.

"My men will follow me then," he said.

"They are poor calashes without sense," commented Wasub with pitying
superiority. "Some with no more comprehension than men of the bush
freshly caught. There is Sali, the foolish son of my sister and by your
great favour appointed to mind the tiller of this ship. His stupidity is
extreme, but his eyes are good--nearly as good as mine that by praying
and much exercise can see far into the night."

Lingard laughed low and then looked earnestly at the serang. Above their
heads a man shook a flare over the side and a thin shower of sparks
floated downward and expired before touching the water.

"So you can see in the night, O serang! Well, then, look and speak.
Speak! Fight--or no fight? Weapons or words? Which folly? Well, what do
you see?"

"A darkness, a darkness," whispered Wasub at last in a frightened tone.
"There are nights--" He shook his head and muttered. "Look. The tide has
turned. Ya, Tuan. The tide has turned."

Lingard looked downward where the water could be seen, gliding past the
ship's side, moving smoothly, streaked with lines of froth, across the
illumined circle thrown round the brig by the lights on her poop.
Air bubbles sparkled, lines of darkness, ripples of glitter appeared,
glided, went astern without a splash, without a trickle, without a
plaint, without a break. The unchecked gentleness of the flow captured
the eye by a subtle spell, fastened insidiously upon the mind a
disturbing sense of the irretrievable. The ebbing of the sea athwart the
lonely sheen of flames resembled the eternal ebb-tide of time; and when
at last Lingard looked up, the knowledge of that noiseless passage of
the wa