Made uneasy by the nature of his holding ground, and fearing that in one of the terrific off-shore gusts the brig would start her anchor, Lingard remained on deck to watch over the safety of his vessel.  With one hand upon the lead-line which would give him instant warning of the brig beginning to drag, he stood by the rail, most of the time deafened and blinded, but also fascinated, by the repeated swift visions of an unknown shore, a sight always so inspiring, as much perhaps by its vague suggestion of danger as by the hopes of success it never fails to awaken in the heart of a true adventurer.  And its immutable aspect of profound and still repose, seen thus under streams of fire and in the midst of a violent uproar, made it appear inconceivably mysterious and amazing.

Between the squalls there were short moments of calm, while now and then even the thunder would cease as if to draw breath.  During one of those intervals.  Lingard, tired and sleepy, was beginning to doze where he stood, when suddenly it occurred to him that, somewhere below, the sea had spoken in a human voice.  It had said, “Praise be to God—­” and the voice sounded small, clear, and confident, like the voice of a child speaking in a cathedral.  Lingard gave a start and thought—­I’ve dreamed this—­and directly the sea said very close to him, “Give a rope.”

The thunder growled wickedly, and Lingard, after shouting to the men on deck, peered down at the water, until at last he made out floating close alongside the upturned face of a man with staring eyes that gleamed at him and then blinked quickly to a flash of lightning.  By that time all hands in the brig were wildly active and many ropes-ends had been thrown over.  Then together with a gust of wind, and, as if blown on board, a man tumbled over the rail and fell all in a heap upon the deck.  Before any one had the time to pick him up, he leaped to his feet, causing the people around him to step back hurriedly.  A sinister blue glare showed the bewildered faces and the petrified attitudes of men completely deafened by the accompanying peal of thunder.  After a time, as if to beings plunged in the abyss of eternal silence, there came to their ears an unfamiliar thin, far-away voice saying: 

“I seek the white man.”

“Here,” cried Lingard.  Then, when he had the stranger, dripping and naked but for a soaked waistcloth, under the lamp of the cabin, he said, “I don’t know you.”

“My name is Jaffir, and I come from Pata Hassim, who is my chief and your friend.  Do you know this?”

He held up a thick gold ring, set with a fairly good emerald.

“I have seen it before on the Rajah’s finger,” said Lingard, looking very grave.

“It is the witness of the truth I speak—­the message from Hassim is—­’Depart and forget!’”

“I don’t forget,” said Lingard, slowly.  “I am not that kind of man.  What folly is this?”