“Yes.  He knows what he is talking about,” said Mrs. Travers in such a bitter tone as to disconcert d’Alcacer for a moment.  “I don’t see a single soul about the decks,” Mrs. Travers continued, almost directly.

“The very watchmen are asleep,” said d’Alcacer.

“There is nothing secret in this expedition, but I prefer not to call any one.  Perhaps you wouldn’t mind pulling me off yourself in our small boat.”

It seemed to her that d’Alcacer showed some hesitation.  She added:  “It has no importance, you know.”

He bowed his assent and preceded her down the side in silence.  When she entered the boat he had the sculls ready and directly she sat down he shoved off.  It was so dark yet that but for the brig’s yard-arm light he could not have kept his direction.  He pulled a very deliberate stroke, looking over his shoulder frequently.  It was Mrs. Travers who saw first the faint gleam of the uncovered sandspit on the black, quiet water.

“A little more to the left,” she said.  “No, the other way. . . .”  D’Alcacer obeyed her directions but his stroke grew even slower than before.  She spoke again.  “Don’t you think that the uttermost farthing should always be paid, Mr. d’Alcacer?”

D’Alcacer glanced over his shoulder, then:  “It would be the only honourable way.  But it may be hard.  Too hard for our common fearful hearts.”

“I am prepared for anything.”

He ceased pulling for a moment . . .  “Anything that may be found on a sandbank,” Mrs. Travers went on.  “On an arid, insignificant, and deserted sandbank.”

D’Alcacer gave two strokes and ceased again.

“There is room for a whole world of suffering on a sandbank, for all the bitterness and resentment a human soul may be made to feel.”

“Yes, I suppose you would know,” she whispered while he gave a stroke or two and again glanced over his shoulder.  She murmured the words: 

“Bitterness, resentment,” and a moment afterward became aware of the keel of the boat running up on the sand.  But she didn’t move, and d’Alcacer, too, remained seated on the thwart with the blades of his sculls raised as if ready to drop them and back the dinghy out into deep water at the first sign.

Mrs. Travers made no sign, but she asked, abruptly:  “Mr. d’Alcacer, do you think I shall ever come back?”

Her tone seemed to him to lack sincerity.  But who could tell what this abruptness covered—­sincere fear or mere vanity?  He asked himself whether she was playing a part for his benefit, or only for herself.

“I don’t think you quite understand the situation, Mrs. Travers.  I don’t think you have a clear idea, either of his simplicity or of his visionary’s pride.”

She thought, contemptuously, that there were other things which d’Alcacer didn’t know and surrendered to a sudden temptation to enlighten him a little.

“You forget his capacity for passion and that his simplicity doesn’t know its own strength.”