At dawn they could see the ragged flotilla of sampans stealing up-river on the early flood; but of the masts that huddled in vapors by the farther bank, they had no certainty until sunrise, when the green rag and the rice-measure appeared still dangling above the Hakka boat.

Even then it was not certain—­as Captain Kneebone sourly pointed out—­that her sailors would keep their agreement.  And when he had piled, on the river-steps, the dry wood for their signal fire, a new difficulty rose.  One of the wounded converts was up, and hobbling with a stick; but the other would never be ferried down any stream known to man.  He lay dying, and the padre could not leave him.

All the others waited, ready and anxious; but no one grumbled because death, never punctual, now kept them waiting.  The flutter of birds, among the orange trees, gradually ceased; the sun came slanting over the eastern wall; the gray floor of the compound turned white and blurred through the dancing heat.  A torrid westerly breeze came fitfully, rose, died away, rose again, and made Captain Kneebone curse.

“A fair wind lost,” he muttered.  “Next we’ll lose the ebb, too, be ’anged.”

Noon passed, and mid-afternoon, before the padre came out from the courtyard, covering his white head with his ungainly helmet.

“We may go now,” he said gravely, “in a few minutes.”

No more were needed, for the loose clods in the old shaft of their counter-mine were quickly handled, and the necessary words soon uttered.  Captain Kneebone had slipped out through the water gate, beforehand, and lighted the fire on the steps.  But not one of the burial party turned his head, to watch the success or failure of their signal, so long as the padre’s resonant bass continued.

When it ceased, however, they returned quickly through the little grove.  The captain opened the great gate, and looked out eagerly, craning to see through the smoke that poured into his face.

“The wasters!” he cried bitterly.  “She’s gone.”

The Hakka boat had, indeed, vanished from her moorings.  On the bronze current, nothing moved but three fishing-boats drifting down, with the smoke, toward the marsh and the bend of the river, and a small junk that toiled up against wind and tide, a cluster of naked sailors tugging and shoving at her heavy sweep, which chafed its rigging of dry rope, and gave out a high, complaining note like the cry of a sea-gull.

“She’s gone,” repeated Captain Kneebone.  “No boat for us.”

But the compradore, dragging his bundle of sharp halberds, poked an inquisitive head out past the captain’s, and peered on all sides through the smoke, with comical thoroughness.  He dodged back, grinning and ducking amiably.

“Moh bettah look-see,” he chuckled; “dat coolie come-back, he too muchee waitee, b’long one piecee foolo-man.”