For all his determination to keep thought off to the very last possible moment, Lingard could not defend himself from a sense of wonder and fear.  What was Jorgenson about?  For a moment Lingard expected the side of the Emma to wreath itself in puffs of smoke, but an age seemed to elapse without the sound of a shot reaching his ears.

The boats were afraid to close.  They were hanging off, irresolute; but why did Jorgenson not put an end to their hesitation by a volley or two of musketry if only over their heads?  Through the anguish of his perplexity Lingard found himself returning to life, to mere life with its sense of pain and mortality, like a man awakened from a dream by a stab in the breast.  What did this silence of the Emma mean?  Could she have been already carried in the fog?  But that was unthinkable.  Some sounds of resistance must have been heard.  No, the boats hung off because they knew with what desperate defence they would meet; and perhaps Jorgenson knew very well what he was doing by holding his fire to the very last moment and letting the craven hearts grow cold with the fear of a murderous discharge that would have to be faced.  What was certain was that this was the time for Belarab to open the great gate and let his men go out, display his power, sweep through the further end of the Settlement, destroy Tengga’s defences, do away once for all with the absurd rivalry of that intriguing amateur boat-builder.  Lingard turned eagerly toward Belarab but saw the Chief busy looking across the lagoon through a long glass resting on the shoulder of a stooping slave.  He was motionless like a carving.  Suddenly he let go the long glass which some ready hands caught as it fell and said to Lingard: 

“No fight.”

“How do you know?” muttered Lingard, astounded.

“There are three empty sampans alongside the ladder,” said Belarab in a just audible voice.  “There is bad talk there.”

“Talk?  I don’t understand,” said Lingard, slowly.

But Belarab had turned toward his three attendants in white robes, with shaven polls under skull-caps of plaited grass, with prayer beads hanging from their wrists, and an air of superior calm on their dark faces:  companions of his desperate days, men of blood once and now imperturbable in their piety and wisdom of trusted counsellors.

“This white man is being betrayed,” he murmured to them with the greatest composure.

D’Alcacer, uncomprehending, watched the scene:  the Man of Fate puzzled and fierce like a disturbed lion, the white-robed Moors, the multitude of half-naked barbarians, squatting by the guns, standing by the loopholes in the immobility of an arranged display.  He saw Mrs. Travers on the verandah of the prisoners’ house, an anxious figure with a white scarf over her head.  Mr. Travers was no doubt too weak after his fit of fever to come outside.  If it hadn’t been for that, all the whites would have been in sight