ckland, why do you
not take him to see Dr. Coutras? He can tell him something
about his illness and death."

"<i Volontiers>," said the Captain, looking at me.

I thanked him, and he looked at his watch.

"It is past six o'clock. We should find him at home if you
care to come now."

I got up without further ado, and we walked along the road
that led to the doctor's house. He lived out of the town,
but the Hotel de la Fleur was on the edge of it, and we were
quickly in the country. The broad road was shaded by pepper-trees,
and on each side were the plantations, cocoa-nut and vanilla.
The pirate birds were screeching among the leaves of the palms.
We came to a stone bridge over a shallow river,
and we stopped for a few minutes to see the native boys bathing.
They chased one another with shrill cries and laughter,
and their bodies, brown and wet, gleamed in the sunlight.

Chapter LIV

As we walked along I reflected on a circumstance which all
that I had lately heard about Strickland forced on my attention.
Here, on this remote island, he seemed to have aroused
none of the detestation with which he was regarded at home,
but compassion rather; and his vagaries were accepted
with tolerance. To these people, native and European, he was
a queer fish, but they were used to queer fish, and they took
him for granted; the world was full of odd persons, who did
odd things; and perhaps they knew that a man is not what he
wants to be, but what he must be. In England and France he
was the square peg in the round hole, but here the holes were
any sort of shape, and no sort of peg was quite amiss.
I do not think he was any gentler here, less selfish or less
brutal, but the circumstances were more favourable. If he had
spent his life amid these surroundings he might have passed
for no worse a man than another. He received here what he
neither expected nor wanted among his own people -- sympathy.

I tried to tell Captain Brunot something of the astonishment
with which this filled me, and for a little while he did not
answer.

"It is not strange that I, at all events, should have had
sympathy for him," he said at last, "for, though perhaps
neither of us knew it, we were both aiming at the same thing."

"What on earth can it be that two people so dissimilar as you
and Strickland could aim at?" I asked, smiling.

"Beauty."

"A large order," I murmured.

"Do you know how men can be so obsessed by love that