"

He paused. Mrs. Travers, leaning on her elbow, shaded her eyes under the
glint of suspended thunderbolts.

"You must hate us," she murmured.

"Hate you," he repeated with, as she fancied, a tinge of disdain in his
tone. "No. I hate myself."

"Why yourself?" she asked, very low.

"For not knowing my mind," he answered. "For not knowing my mind. For
not knowing what it is that's got hold of me since--since this morning.
I was angry then. . . . Nothing but very angry. . . ."

"And now?" she murmured.

"I am . . . unhappy," he said. After a moment of silence which gave to
Mrs. Travers the time to wonder how it was that this man had succeeded
in penetrating into the very depths of her compassion, he hit the table
such a blow that all the heavy muskets seemed to jump a little.

Mrs. Travers heard Hassim pronounce a few words earnestly, and a moan of
distress from Immada.

"I believed in you before you . . . before you gave me your confidence,"
she began. "You could see that. Could you not?"

He looked at her fixedly. "You are not the first that believed in me,"
he said.

Hassim, lounging with his back against the closed door, kept his eye on
him watchfully and Immada's dark and sorrowful eyes rested on the face
of the white woman. Mrs. Travers felt as though she were engaged in
a contest with them; in a struggle for the possession of that man's
strength and of that man's devotion. When she looked up at Lingard she
saw on his face--which should have been impassive or exalted, the face
of a stern leader or the face of a pitiless dreamer--an expression
of utter forgetfulness. He seemed to be tasting the delight of some
profound and amazing sensation. And suddenly in the midst of her appeal
to his generosity, in the middle of a phrase, Mrs. Travers faltered,
becoming aware that she was the object of his contemplation.

"Do not! Do not look at that woman!" cried Immada. "O! Master--look
away. . . ." Hassim threw one arm round the girl's neck. Her voice sank.
"O! Master--look at us." Hassim, drawing her to himself, covered her
lips with his hand. She struggled a little like a snared bird and
submitted, hiding her face on his shoulder, very quiet, sobbing without
noise.

"What do they say to you?" asked Mrs. Travers with a faint and pained
smile. "What can they say? It is intolerable to think that their words
which have no meaning for me may go straight to your heart. . . ."

"Look away," whispered Lingard witho