Belarab, at a distance, could still outweigh the power on the spot of Tengga, whose secret purposes were no better known, who was jovial, talkative, outspoken and pugnacious; but who was not a professed servant of God famed for many charities and a scrupulous performance of pious practices, and who also had no father who had achieved a local saintship.  But Belarab, with his glamour of asceticism and melancholy together with a reputation for severity (for a man so pious would be naturally ruthless), was not on the spot.  The only favourable point in his absence was the fact that he had taken with him his latest wife, the same lady whom Jorgenson had mentioned in his letter to Lingard as anxious to bring about battle, murder, and the looting of the yacht, not because of inborn wickedness of heart but from a simple desire for silks, jewels and other objects of personal adornment, quite natural in a girl so young and elevated to such a high position.  Belarab had selected her to be the companion of his retirement and Lingard was glad of it.  He was not afraid of her influence over Belarab.  He knew his man.  No words, no blandishments, no sulks, scoldings, or whisperings of a favourite could affect either the resolves or the irresolutions of that Arab whose action ever seemed to hang in mystic suspense between the contradictory speculations and judgments disputing the possession of his will.  It was not what Belarab would either suddenly do or leisurely determine upon that Lingard was afraid of.  The danger was that in his taciturn hesitation, which had something hopelessly godlike in its remote calmness, the man would do nothing and leave his white friend face to face with unruly impulses against which Lingard had no means of action but force which he dared not use since it would mean the destruction of his plans and the downfall of his hopes; and worse still would wear an aspect of treachery to Hassim and Immada, those fugitives whom he had snatched away from the jaws of death on a night of storm and had promised to lead back in triumph to their own country he had seen but once, sleeping unmoved under the wrath and fire of heaven.

On the afternoon of the very day he had arrived with her on board the Emma—­to the infinite disgust of Jorgenson—­Lingard held with Mrs. Travers (after she had had a couple of hours’ rest) a long, fiery, and perplexed conversation.  From the nature of the problem it could not be exhaustive; but toward the end of it they were both feeling thoroughly exhausted.  Mrs. Travers had no longer to be instructed as to facts and possibilities.  She was aware of them only too well and it was not her part to advise or argue.  She was not called upon to decide or to plead.  The situation was far beyond that.  But she was worn out with watching the passionate conflict within the man who was both so desperately reckless and so rigidly restrained in the very ardour of his heart and the greatness of his soul.  It was a spectacle that made her forget the actual questions