made him speak in the words of his own
people. Speak to himself--not to me. Not to me! What was he saying? What
was he going to do? Was he afraid of you?--Of death? What was in
his heart? . . . Fear? . . . Or anger? . . . what desire? . . . what
sadness? He spoke; spoke; many words. All the time! And I could not
know! I wanted to speak to him. He was deaf to me. I followed him
everywhere, watching for some word I could understand; but his mind
was in the land of his people--away from me. When I touched him he was
angry--so!"

She imitated the movement of some one shaking off roughly an importunate
hand, and looked at Lingard with tearful and unsteady eyes.

After a short interval of laboured panting, as if she had been out of
breath with running or fighting, she looked down and went on--

"Day after day, night after night, I lived watching him--seeing nothing.
And my heart was heavy--heavy with the presence of death that dwelt
amongst us. I could not believe. I thought he was afraid. Afraid of you!
Then I, myself, knew fear. . . . Tell me, Rajah Laut, do you know the
fear without voice--the fear of silence--the fear that comes when there
is no one near--when there is no battle, no cries, no angry faces or
armed hands anywhere? . . . The fear from which there is no escape!"

She paused, fastened her eyes again on the puzzled Lingard, and hurried
on in a tone of despair--

"And I knew then he would not fight you! Before--many days ago--I went
away twice to make him obey my desire; to make him strike at his own
people so that he could be mine--mine! O calamity! His hand was false as
your white hearts. It struck forward, pushed by my desire--by his
desire of me. . . . It struck that strong hand, and--O shame!--it killed
nobody! Its fierce and lying blow woke up hate without any fear. Round
me all was lies. His strength was a lie. My own people lied to me and to
him. And to meet you--you, the great!--he had no one but me? But me
with my rage, my pain, my weakness. Only me! And to me he would not even
speak. The fool!"

She came up close to Lingard, with the wild and stealthy aspect of a
lunatic longing to whisper out an insane secret--one of those misshapen,
heart-rending, and ludicrous secrets; one of those thoughts that, like
monsters--cruel, fantastic, and mournful, wander about terrible and
unceasing in the night of madness. Lingard looked at her, astounded but
unflinching. She spoke in his face, very low.

"He i