with all those questions of freedom and captivity, of violence and intrigue, of life and death?  He was not in a state to be told anything and it seemed to her that she did not want to speak, that in the greatness of her compassion she simply could not speak.  All she could do for him was to rest her hand lightly on his head and respond silently to the slight movement she felt, sigh or sob, but a movement which suddenly immobilized her in an anxious emotion.

About the same time on the other side of the lagoon Jorgenson, raising his eyes, noted the stars and said to himself that the night would not last long now.  He wished for daylight.  He hoped that Lingard had already done something.  The blaze in Tengga’s compound had been re-lighted.  Tom’s power was unbounded, practically unbounded.  And he was invulnerable.

Jorgenson let his old eyes wander amongst the gleams and shadows of the great sheet of water between him and that hostile shore and fancied he could detect a floating shadow having the characteristic shape of a man in a small canoe.

“O!  Ya!  Man!” he hailed.  “What do you want?” Other eyes, too, had detected that shadow.  Low murmurs arose on the deck of the Emma.  “If you don’t speak at once I shall fire,” shouted Jorgenson, fiercely.

“No, white man,” returned the floating shape in a solemn drawl.  “I am the bearer of friendly words.  A chief’s words.  I come from Tengga.”

“There was a bullet that came on board not a long time ago—­also from Tengga,” said Jorgenson.

“That was an accident,” protested the voice from the lagoon.  “What else could it be?  Is there war between you and Tengga?  No, no, O white man!  All Tengga desires is a long talk.  He has sent me to ask you to come ashore.”

At these words Jorgenson’s heart sank a little.  This invitation meant that Lingard had made no move.  Was Tom asleep or altogether mad?

“The talk would be of peace,” declared impressively the shadow which had drifted much closer to the hulk now.

“It isn’t for me to talk with great chiefs,” Jorgenson returned, cautiously.

“But Tengga is a friend,” argued the nocturnal messenger.  “And by that fire there are other friends—­your friends, the Rajah Hassim and the lady Immada, who send you their greetings and who expect their eyes to rest on you before sunrise.”

“That’s a lie,” remarked Jorgenson, perfunctorily, and fell into thought, while the shadowy bearer of words preserved a scandalized silence, though, of course, he had not expected to be believed for a moment.  But one could never tell what a white man would believe.  He had wanted to produce the impression that Hassim and Immada were the honoured guests of Tengga.  It occurred to him suddenly that perhaps Jorgenson didn’t know anything of the capture.  And he persisted.

“My words are all true, Tuan.  The Rajah of Wajo and his sister are with my master.  I left them sitting by the fire on Tengga’s right hand.  Will you come ashore to be welcomed amongst friends?”