med
his aloofness from the life of men, but approaching the bulwark he
condescended to look toward Belarab's stockade.

"Yes, he is home," he said very low.

"What's going to happen?" cried Mrs. Travers. "What's to be done?"
Jorgenson kept up his appearance of communing with himself.

"I know what to do," he mumbled.

"You are lucky," said Mrs. Travers, with intense bitterness.

It seemed to her that she was abandoned by all the world. The opposite
shore of the lagoon had resumed its aspect of a painted scene that would
never roll up to disclose the truth behind its blinding and soulless
splendour. It seemed to her that she had said her last words to all of
them: to d'Alcacer, to her husband, to Lingard himself--and that they
had all gone behind the curtain forever out of her sight. Of all the
white men Jorgenson alone was left, that man who had done with life so
completely that his mere presence robbed it of all heat and mystery,
leaving nothing but its terrible, its revolting insignificance. And Mrs.
Travers was ready for revolt. She cried with suppressed passion:

"Are you aware, Captain Jorgenson, that I am alive?"

He turned his eyes on her, and for a moment she was daunted by their
cold glassiness. But before they could drive her away, something like
the gleam of a spark gave them an instant's animation.

"I want to go and join them. I want to go ashore," she said, firmly.
"There!"

Her bare and extended arm pointed across the lagoon, and Jorgenson's
resurrected eyes glided along the white limb and wandered off into
space.

"No boat," he muttered.

"There must be a canoe. I know there is a canoe. I want it."

She stepped forward compelling, commanding, trying to concentrate in
her glance all her will power, the sense of her own right to dispose of
herself and her claim to be served to the last moment of her life. It
was as if she had done nothing. Jorgenson didn't flinch.

"Which of them are you after?" asked his blank, unringing voice.

She continued to look at him; her face had stiffened into a severe mask;
she managed to say distinctly:

"I suppose you have been asking yourself that question for some time,
Captain Jorgenson?"

"No. I am asking you now."

His face disclosed nothing to Mrs. Travers' bold and weary eyes.
"What could you do over there?" Jorgenson added as merciless, as
irrepressible, and sincere as though he were the embodiment of that
inner voice that speaks in all of us at t