“Good-bye,” said Lingard to Mrs. Travers.  “You will be safe here.”  He looked all around the cabin.  “I leave you,” he began again and stopped short.  Mrs. Travers’ hand, resting lightly on the edge of the table, began to tremble.  “It’s for you . . .  Yes.  For you alone . . . and it seems it can’t be. . . .”

It seemed to him that he was saying good-bye to all the world, that he was taking a last leave of his own self.  Mrs. Travers did not say a word, but Immada threw herself between them and cried: 

“You are a cruel woman!  You are driving him away from where his strength is.  You put madness into his heart, O!  Blind—­without pity—­without shame! . . .”

“Immada,” said Hassim’s calm voice.  Nobody moved.

“What did she say to me?” faltered Mrs. Travers and again repeated in a voice that sounded hard, “What did she say?”

“Forgive her,” said Lingard.  “Her fears are for me . . .”—­“It’s about your going?” Mrs. Travers interrupted, swiftly.

“Yes, it is—­and you must forgive her.”  He had turned away his eyes with something that resembled embarrassment but suddenly he was assailed by an irresistible longing to look again at that woman.  At the moment of parting he clung to her with his glance as a man holds with his hands a priceless and disputed possession.  The faint blush that overspread gradually Mrs. Travers’ features gave her face an air of extraordinary and startling animation.

“The danger you run?” she asked, eagerly.  He repelled the suggestion by a slighting gesture of the hand.—­“Nothing worth looking at twice.  Don’t give it a thought,” he said.  “I’ve been in tighter places.”  He clapped his hands and waited till he heard the cabin door open behind his back.  “Steward, my pistols.”  The mulatto in slippers, aproned to the chin, glided through the cabin with unseeing eyes as though for him no one there had existed. . . .—­“Is it my heart that aches so?” Mrs. Travers asked herself, contemplating Lingard’s motionless figure.  “How long will this sensation of dull pain last?  Will it last forever. . . .”—­“How many changes of clothes shall I put up, sir?” asked the steward, while Lingard took the pistols from him and eased the hammers after putting on fresh caps.—­“I will take nothing this time, steward.”  He received in turn from the mulatto’s hands a red silk handkerchief, a pocket book, a cigar-case.  He knotted the handkerchief loosely round his throat; it was evident he was going through the routine of every departure for the shore; he even opened the cigar-case to see whether it had been filled.—­“Hat, sir,” murmured the half-caste.  Lingard flung it on his head.—­“Take your orders from this lady, steward—­till I come back.  The cabin is hers—­do you hear?” He sighed ready to go and seemed unable to lift a foot.—­“I am coming with you,” declared Mrs. Travers suddenly in a tone of unalterable decision.  He did not look at her; he did not even look up; he said nothing,