Above the buildings, the men, the women, the still sheet of water and the great plain of crops glistening with dew, stretched the exalted, the miraculous peace of a cloudless sky.  And no road seemed to lead into this country of splendour and stillness.  One could not believe the unquiet sea was so near, with its gifts and its unending menace.  Even during the months of storms, the great clamour rising from the whitened expanse of the Shallows dwelt high in the air in a vast murmur, now feeble now stronger, that seemed to swing back and forth on the wind above the earth without any one being able to tell whence it came.  It was like the solemn chant of a waterfall swelling and dying away above the woods, the fields, above the roofs of houses and the heads of men, above the secret peace of that hidden and flourishing settlement of vanquished fanatics, fugitives, and outcasts.

Every afternoon Belarab, followed by an escort that stopped outside the door, entered alone the house of his guest.  He gave the salutation, inquired after his health, conversed about insignificant things with an inscrutable mien.  But all the time the steadfast gaze of his thoughtful eyes seemed to seek the truth within that white face.  In the cool of the evening, before the sun had set, they talked together, passing and repassing between the rugged pillars of the grove near the gate of the stockade.  The escort away in the oblique sunlight, followed with their eyes the strolling figures appearing and vanishing behind the trees.  Many words were pronounced, but nothing was said that would disclose the thoughts of the two men.  They clasped hands demonstratively before separating, and the heavy slam of the gate was followed by the triple thud of the wooden bars dropped into iron clamps.

On the third night, Lingard was awakened from a light sleep by the sound of whispering outside.  A black shadow obscured the stars in the doorway, and a man entering suddenly, stood above his couch while another could be seen squatting—­a dark lump on the threshold of the hut.

“Fear not.  I am Belarab,” said a cautious voice.

“I was not afraid,” whispered Lingard.  “It is the man coming in the dark and without warning who is in danger.”

“And did you not come to me without warning?  I said ’welcome’—­it was as easy for me to say ‘kill him.’”

“You were within reach of my arm.  We would have died together,” retorted Lingard, quietly.

The other clicked his tongue twice, and his indistinct shape seemed to sink half-way through the floor.

“It was not written thus before we were born,” he said, sitting cross-legged near the mats, and in a deadened voice.  “Therefore you are my guest.  Let the talk between us be straight like the shaft of a spear and shorter than the remainder of this night.  What do you want?”

“First, your long life,” answered Lingard, leaning forward toward the gleam of a pair of eyes, “and then—­your help.”