. against
men. . . . All men . . . I do not know. First they came, the invisible
whites, and dealt death from afar . . . then he came. He came to me who
was alone and sad. He came; angry with his brothers; great amongst his
own people; angry with those I have not seen: with the people where men
have no mercy and women have no shame. He was of them, and great amongst
them. For he was great?"

Lingard shook his head slightly. She frowned at him, and went on in
disordered haste--

"Listen. I saw him. I have lived by the side of brave men . . . of
chiefs. When he came I was the daughter of a beggar--of a blind man
without strength and hope. He spoke to me as if I had been brighter than
the sunshine--more delightful than the cool water of the brook by which
we met--more . . ." Her anxious eyes saw some shade of expression pass
on her listener's face that made her hold her breath for a second, and
then explode into pained fury so violent that it drove Lingard back
a pace, like an unexpected blast of wind. He lifted both his hands,
incongruously paternal in his venerable aspect, bewildered and soothing,
while she stretched her neck forward and shouted at him.

"I tell you I was all that to him. I know it! I saw it! . . . There are
times when even you white men speak the truth. I saw his eyes. I
felt his eyes, I tell you! I saw him tremble when I came near--when I
spoke--when I touched him. Look at me! You have been young. Look at me.
Look, Rajah Laut!"

She stared at Lingard with provoking fixity, then, turning her head
quickly, she sent over her shoulder a glance, full of humble fear, at
the house that stood high behind her back--dark, closed, rickety and
silent on its crooked posts.

Lingard's eyes followed her look, and remained gazing expectantly at the
house. After a minute or so he muttered, glancing at her suspiciously--

"If he has not heard your voice now, then he must be far away--or dead."

"He is there," she whispered, a little calmed but still anxious--"he
is there. For three days he waited. Waited for you night and day. And
I waited with him. I waited, watching his face, his eyes, his lips;
listening to his words.--To the words I could not understand.--To the
words he spoke in daylight; to the words he spoke at night in his short
sleep. I listened. He spoke to himself walking up and down here--by the
river; by the bushes. And I followed. I wanted to know--and I could not!
He was tormented by things that