to Tengga who would see there at once the downfall of his purposes and the end of his hopes.  At once!  That moment! . . .  Afterward the question of a ransom could be arranged with Daman in which he, Belarab, would mediate in the fullness of his recovered power, without a rival and in the sincerity of his heart.  And then, if need be, he could put forth all his power against the chief of the sea-vagabonds who would, as a matter of fact, be negotiating under the shadow of the sword.

Belarab talked, low-voiced and dignified, with now and then a subtle intonation, a persuasive inflexion or a half-melancholy smile in the course of the argument.  What encouraged him most was the changed aspect of his white friend.  The fierce power of his personality seemed to have turned into a dream.  Lingard listened, growing gradually inscrutable in his continued silence, but remaining gentle in a sort of rapt patience as if lapped in the wings of the Angel of Peace himself.  Emboldened by that transformation, Belarab’s counsellors seated on the mats murmured loudly their assent to the views of the Chief.  Through the thickening white mist of tropical lands, the light of the tropical day filtered into the hall.  One of the wise men got up from the floor and with prudent fingers began extinguishing the waxlights one by one.  He hesitated to touch the lamps, the flames of which looked yellow and cold.  A puff of the morning breeze entered the great room, faint and chill.  Lingard, facing Belarab in a wooden armchair, with slack limbs and in the divine emptiness of a mind enchanted by a glimpse of Paradise, shuddered profoundly.

A strong voice shouted in the doorway without any ceremony and with a sort of jeering accent: 

“Tengga’s boats are out in the mist.”

Lingard half rose from his seat, Belarab himself could not repress a start.  Lingard’s attitude was a listening one, but after a moment of hesitation he ran out of the hall.  The inside of the stockade was beginning to buzz like a disturbed hive.

Outside Belarab’s house Lingard slowed his pace.  The mist still hung.  A great sustained murmur pervaded it and the blurred forms of men were all moving outward from the centre toward the palisades.  Somewhere amongst the buildings a gong clanged.  D’Alcacer’s raised voice was heard: 

“What is happening?”

Lingard was passing then close to the prisoners’ house.  There was a group of armed men below the verandah and above their heads he saw Mrs. Travers by the side of d’Alcacer.  The fire by which Lingard had spent the night was extinguished, its embers scattered, and the bench itself lay overturned.  Mrs. Travers must have run up on the verandah at the first alarm.  She and d’Alcacer up there seemed to dominate the tumult which was now subsiding.  Lingard noticed the scarf across Mrs. Travers’ face.  D’Alcacer was bareheaded.  He shouted again: 

“What’s the matter?”

“I am going to see,” shouted Lingard back.