The thought that before long perhaps he would be neither man nor woman but a lump of cold clay, crossed d’Alcacer’s mind, which was living, alert, and unsubdued by the danger.  He had welcomed the arrival of Mrs. Travers simply because he had been very lonely in that stockade, Mr. Travers having fallen into a phase of sulks complicated with shivering fits.  Of Lingard d’Alcacer had seen almost nothing since they had landed, for the Man of Fate was extremely busy negotiating in the recesses of Belarab’s main hut; and the thought that his life was being a matter of arduous bargaining was not agreeable to Mr. d’Alcacer.  The Chief’s dependents and the armed men garrisoning the stockade paid very little attention to him apparently, and this gave him the feeling of his captivity being very perfect and hopeless.  During the afternoon, while pacing to and fro in the bit of shade thrown by the glorified sort of hut inside which Mr. Travers shivered and sulked misanthropically, he had been aware of the more distant verandahs becoming filled now and then by the muffled forms of women of Belarab’s household taking a distant and curious view of the white man.  All this was irksome.  He found his menaced life extremely difficult to get through.  Yes, he welcomed the arrival of Mrs. Travers who brought with her a tragic note into the empty gloom.

“Suspicion is not in my nature, Mrs. Travers, I assure you, and I hope that you on your side will never suspect either my reserve or my frankness.  I respect the mysterious nature of your conviction but hasn’t Jorgenson given you some occasion to. . .”

“He hates me,” said Mrs. Travers, and frowned at d’Alcacer’s incipient smile.  “It isn’t a delusion on my part.  The worst is that he hates me not for myself.  I believe he is completely indifferent to my existence.  Jorgenson hates me because as it were I represent you two who are in danger, because it is you two that are the trouble and I . . .  Well!”

“Yes, yes, that’s certain,” said d’Alcacer, hastily.  “But Jorgenson is wrong in making you the scapegoat.  For if you were not here cool reason would step in and would make Lingard pause in his passion to make a king out of an exile.  If we were murdered it would certainly make some stir in the world in time and he would fall under the suspicion of complicity with those wild and inhuman Moors.  Who would regard the greatness of his day-dreams, his engaged honour, his chivalrous feelings?  Nothing could save him from that suspicion.  And being what he is, you understand me, Mrs. Travers (but you know him much better than I do), it would morally kill him.”

“Heavens!” whispered Mrs. Travers.  “This has never occurred to me.”  Those words seemed to lose themselves in the folds of the scarf without reaching d’Alcacer, who continued in his gentle tone: 

’"However, as it is, he will be safe enough whatever happens.  He will have your testimony to clear him.”