“Aye, Mr. Shaw.  Very good.  Mind they don’t board you—­but I can hear nothing.  Not a sound.  It can’t be much.”

“The fellow has been dreaming, no doubt.  I have good ears, too, and—­”

He went forward and the end of his sentence was lost in an indistinct growl.  Lingard stood attentive.  One by one the three seacannies off duty appeared on the poop and busied themselves around a big chest that stood by the side of the cabin companion.  A rattle and clink of steel weapons turned out on the deck was heard, but the men did not even whisper.  Lingard peered steadily into the night, then shook his head.

“Serang!” he called, half aloud.

The spare old man ran up the ladder so smartly that his bony feet did not seem to touch the steps.  He stood by his commander, his hands behind his back; a figure indistinct but straight as an arrow.

“Who was looking out?” asked Lingard.

“Badroon, the Bugis,” said Wasub, in his crisp, jerky manner.

“I can hear nothing.  Badroon heard the noise in his mind.”

“The night hides the boat.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Yes, Tuan.  Small boat.  Before sunset.  By the land.  Now coming here—­near.  Badroon heard him.”

“Why didn’t you report it, then?” asked Lingard, sharply.

“Malim spoke.  He said:  ‘Nothing there,’ while I could see.  How could I know what was in his mind or yours, Tuan?”

“Do you hear anything now?”

“No.  They stopped now.  Perhaps lost the ship—­who knows?  Perhaps afraid—­”

“Well!” muttered Lingard, moving his feet uneasily.  “I believe you lie.  What kind of boat?”

“White men’s boat.  A four-men boat, I think.  Small.  Tuan, I hear him now!  There!”

He stretched his arm straight out, pointing abeam for a time, then his arm fell slowly.

“Coming this way,” he added with decision.

From forward Shaw called out in a startled tone: 

“Something on the water, sir!  Broad on this bow!”

“All right!” called back Lingard.

A lump of blacker darkness floated into his view.  From it came over the water English words—­deliberate, reaching him one by one; as if each had made its own difficult way through the profound stillness of the night.

“What—­ship—­is—­that—­pray?”

“English brig,” answered Lingard, after a short moment of hesitation.

“A brig!  I thought you were something bigger,” went on the voice from the sea with a tinge of disappointment in its deliberate tone.  “I am coming alongside—­if—­you—­please.”

“No! you don’t!” called Lingard back, sharply.  The leisurely drawl of the invisible speaker seemed to him offensive, and woke up a hostile feeling.  “No! you don’t if you care for your boat.  Where do you spring from?  Who are you—­anyhow?  How many of you are there in that boat?”

After these emphatic questions there was an interval of silence.  During that time the shape of the boat became a little more distinct.  She must have carried some way on her yet, for she loomed up bigger and nearly abreast of where Lingard stood, before the self-possessed voice was heard again: