Such is the traditional account of Lingard’s visit to the shores of Boni.  And the truth is he came and went the same night; for, when the dawn broke on a cloudy sky the brig, under reefed canvas and smothered in sprays, was storming along to the southward on her way out of the Gulf.  Lingard, watching over the rapid course of his vessel, looked ahead with anxious eyes and more than once asked himself with wonder, why, after all, was he thus pressing her under all the sail she could carry.  His hair was blown about by the wind, his mind was full of care and the indistinct shapes of many new thoughts, and under his feet, the obedient brig dashed headlong from wave to wave.

Her owner and commander did not know where he was going.  That adventurer had only a confused notion of being on the threshold of a big adventure.  There was something to be done, and he felt he would have to do it.  It was expected of him.  The seas expected it; the land expected it.  Men also.  The story of war and of suffering; Jaffir’s display of fidelity, the sight of Hassim and his sister, the night, the tempest, the coast under streams of fire—­all this made one inspiring manifestation of a life calling to him distinctly for interference.  But what appealed to him most was the silent, the complete, unquestioning, and apparently uncurious, trust of these people.  They came away from death straight into his arms as it were, and remained in them passive as though there had been no such thing as doubt or hope or desire.  This amazing unconcern seemed to put him under a heavy load of obligation.

He argued to himself that had not these defeated men expected everything from him they could not have been so indifferent to his action.  Their dumb quietude stirred him more than the most ardent pleading.  Not a word, not a whisper, not a questioning look even!  They did not ask!  It flattered him.  He was also rather glad of it, because if the unconscious part of him was perfectly certain of its action, he, himself, did not know what to do with those bruised and battered beings a playful fate had delivered suddenly into his hands.

He had received the fugitives personally, had helped some over the rail; in the darkness, slashed about by lightning, he had guessed that not one of them was unwounded, and in the midst of tottering shapes he wondered how on earth they had managed to reach the long-boat that had brought them off.  He caught unceremoniously in his arms the smallest of these shapes and carried it into the cabin, then without looking at his light burden ran up again on deck to get the brig under way.  While shouting out orders he was dimly aware of someone hovering near his elbow.  It was Hassim.