Sir Arthur Deane found himself speculating on the cause of this extraordinary resolve, but, steadfast to his policy of avoiding controversial matters, said nothing.  A few words to the captain procured enough stores to keep the Mahommedan for six months at least, and whilst these were being landed, the question was raised how best to dispose of the Dyaks.

The commander wished to consult the convenience of his guests.

“If we go a little out of our way and land them in Borneo,” he said, “they will be hanged without troubling you further.  If I take them to Singapore they will be tried on your evidence and sent to penal servitude.  Which is it to be?”

It was Iris who decided.

“I cannot bear to think of more lives being sacrificed,” she protested.  “Perhaps if these men are treated mercifully and sent to their homes after some punishment their example may serve as a deterrent to others.”

So it was settled that way.  The anchor rattled up to its berth and the Orient turned her head towards Singapore.  As she steadily passed away into the deepening azure, the girl and her lover watched the familiar outlines of Rainbow Island growing dim in the evening light.  For a long while they could see Mir Jan’s tall, thin figure motionless on a rock at the extremity of Europa Point.  Their hut, the reef, the ledge, came into view as the cruiser swung round to a more northerly course.

Iris had thrown an arm across her father’s shoulders.  The three were left alone just then, and they were silent for many minutes.  At last, the flying miles merged the solitary palm beyond the lagoon with the foliage on the cliff.  The wide cleft of Prospect Park grew less distinct.  Mir Jan’s white-clothed figure was lost in the dark background.  The island was becoming vague, dream-like, a blurred memory.

“Robert,” said the girl devoutly, “God has been very good to us.”

“Yes,” he replied.  “I was thinking, even this instant, of the verse that is carved on the gate of the Memorial Well at Cawnpore:  ’These are they which came out of great tribulation.’  We, too, have come out of great tribulation, happily with our lives—­and more.  The decrees of fate are indeed inscrutable.”

Iris turned to him a face roseate with loving comprehension.

“Do you remember this hour yesterday?” she murmured—­“how we suffered from thirst—­how the Dyaks began their second attack from the ridge—­how you climbed down the ladder and I followed you?  Oh father, darling,” she went on impulsively, tightening her grasp, “you will never know how brave he was, how enduring, how he risked all for me and cheered me to the end, even though the end seemed to be the grave.”

“I think I am beginning to understand now,” answered the shipowner, averting his eyes lest Iris should see the tears in them.  Their Calvary was ended, they thought—­was it for him to lead them again through the sorrowful way?  It was a heartrending task that lay before him, a task from which his soul revolted.  He refused even to attempt it.  He sought forgetfulness in a species of mental intoxication, and countenanced his daughter’s love idyll with such apparent approval that Lord Ventnor wondered whether Sir Arthur were not suffering from senile decay.