“Directly there is enough light to see flags by, make a signal to the schooner to heave short on her cable and loose her sails.  If there is any hanging back give them a blank gun, Mr. Carter.  I will have no shilly-shallying.  If she doesn’t go at the word, by heavens, I will drive her out.  I am still master here—­for another day.”

The overwhelming sense of immensity, of disturbing emptiness, which affects those who walk on the sands in the midst of the sea, intimidated Mrs. Travers.  The world resembled a limitless flat shadow which was motionless and elusive.  Then against the southern stars she saw a human form that isolated and lone appeared to her immense:  the shape of a giant outlined amongst the constellations.  As it approached her it shrank to common proportions, got clear of the stars, lost its awesomeness, and became menacing in its ominous and silent advance.  Mrs. Travers hastened to speak.

“You have asked for me.  I am come.  I trust you will have no reason to regret my obedience.”

He walked up quite close to her, bent down slightly to peer into her face.  The first of the tropical dawn put its characteristic cold sheen into the sky above the Shore of Refuge.

Mrs. Travers did not turn away her head.

“Are you looking for a change in me?  No.  You won’t see it.  Now I know that I couldn’t change even if I wanted to.  I am made of clay that is too hard.”

“I am looking at you for the first time,” said Lingard.  “I never could see you before.  There were too many things, too many thoughts, too many people.  No, I never saw you before.  But now the world is dead.”

He grasped her shoulders, approaching his face close to hers.  She never flinched.

“Yes, the world is dead,” she said.  “Look your fill then.  It won’t be for long.”

He let her go as suddenly as though she had struck him.  The cold white light of the tropical dawn had crept past the zenith now and the expanse of the shallow waters looked cold, too, without stir or ripple within the enormous rim of the horizon where, to the west, a shadow lingered still.

“Take my arm,” he said.

She did so at once, and turning their backs on the two ships they began to walk along the sands, but they had not made many steps when Mrs. Travers perceived an oblong mound with a board planted upright at one end.  Mrs. Travers knew that part of the sands.  It was here she used to walk with her husband and d’Alcacer every evening after dinner, while the yacht lay stranded and her boats were away in search of assistance—­which they had found—­which they had found!  This was something that she had never seen there before.  Lingard had suddenly stopped and looked at it moodily.  She pressed his arm to rouse him and asked, “What is this?”

“This is a grave,” said Lingard in a low voice, and still gazing at the heap of sand.  “I had him taken out of the ship last night.  Strange,” he went on in a musing tone, “how much a grave big enough for one man only can hold.  His message was to forget everything.”