enchantment in the words that made this vain offer of fidelity, it became less overpowering to his sight, less crushing to his thought.  He had a moment of pride which soothed his heart for the space of two beats.  His unreasonable and misjudged heart, shrinking before the menace of failure, expanded freely with a sense of generous gratitude.  In the threatening dimness of his emotions this man’s offer made a point of clearness, the glimmer of a torch held aloft in the night.  It was priceless, no doubt, but ineffectual; too small, too far, too solitary.  It did not dispel the mysterious obscurity that had descended upon his fortunes so that his eyes could no longer see the work of his hands.  The sadness of defeat pervaded the world.

“And what could you do, O Wasub?” he said.

“I could always call out—­’Take care, Tuan.’”

“And then for these charm-words of mine.  Hey?  Turn danger aside?  What?  But perchance you would die all the same.  Treachery is a strong magic, too—­as you said.”

“Yes, indeed!  The order might come to your servant.  But I—­Wasub—­the son of a free man, a follower of Rajahs, a fugitive, a slave, a pilgrim—­diver for pearls, serang of white men’s ships, I have had too many masters.  Too many.  You are the last.”  After a silence he said in an almost indifferent voice:  “If you go, Tuan, let us go together.”

For a time Lingard made no sound.

“No use,” he said at last.  “No use, serang.  One life is enough to pay for a man’s folly—­and you have a household.”

“I have two—­Tuan; but it is a long time since I sat on the ladder of a house to talk at ease with neighbours.  Yes.  Two households; one in—­” Lingard smiled faintly.  “Tuan, let me follow you.”

“No.  You have said it, serang—­I am alone.  That is true, and alone I shall go on this very night.  But first I must bring all the white people here.  Push.”

“Ready, Tuan?  Look out!”

Wasub’s body swung over the sea with extended arms.  Lingard caught up the sculls, and as the dinghy darted away from the brig’s side he had a complete view of the lighted poop—­Shaw leaning massively over the taffrail in sulky dejection, the flare bearers erect and rigid, the heads along the rail, the eyes staring after him above the bulwarks.  The fore-end of the brig was wrapped in a lurid and sombre mistiness; the sullen mingling of darkness and of light; her masts pointing straight up could be tracked by torn gleams and vanished above as if the trucks had been tall enough to pierce the heavy mass of vapours motionless overhead.  She was beautifully precious.  His loving eyes saw her floating at rest in a wavering halo, between an invisible sky and an invisible sea, like a miraculous craft suspended in the air.  He turned his head away as if the sight had been too much for him at the moment of separation, and, as soon as his little boat had passed beyond the limit of the light thrown upon the water, he perceived very low in the black void of the west the stern lantern of the yacht shining feebly like a star about to set, unattainable, infinitely remote—­belonging to another universe.