Her thoughts, like a fascinated moth, went fluttering toward that light—­that man—­that girl, who had known war, danger, seen death near, had obtained evidently the devotion of that man.  The occurrences of the afternoon had been strange in themselves, but what struck her artistic sense was the vigour of their presentation.  They outlined themselves before her memory with the clear simplicity of some immortal legend.  They were mysterious, but she felt certain they were absolutely true.  They embodied artless and masterful feelings; such, no doubt, as had swayed mankind in the simplicity of its youth.  She envied, for a moment, the lot of that humble and obscure sister.  Nothing stood between that girl and the truth of her sensations.  She could be sincerely courageous, and tender and passionate and—­well—­ferocious.  Why not ferocious?  She could know the truth of terror—­and of affection, absolutely, without artificial trammels, without the pain of restraint.

Thinking of what such life could be Mrs. Travers felt invaded by that inexplicable exaltation which the consciousness of their physical capacities so often gives to intellectual beings.  She glowed with a sudden persuasion that she also could be equal to such an existence; and her heart was dilated with a momentary longing to know the naked truth of things; the naked truth of life and passion buried under the growth of centuries.

She glowed and, suddenly, she quivered with the shock of coming to herself as if she had fallen down from a star.  There was a sound of rippling water and a shapeless mass glided out of the dark void she confronted.  A voice below her feet said: 

“I made out your shape—­on the sky.”  A cry of surprise expired on her lips and she could only peer downward.  Lingard, alone in the brig’s dinghy, with another stroke sent the light boat nearly under the yacht’s counter, laid his sculls in, and rose from the thwart.  His head and shoulders loomed up alongside and he had the appearance of standing upon the sea.  Involuntarily Mrs. Travers made a movement of retreat.

“Stop,” he said, anxiously, “don’t speak loud.  No one must know.  Where do your people think themselves, I wonder?  In a dock at home?  And you—­”

“My husband is not on board,” she interrupted, hurriedly.

“I know.”

She bent a little more over the rail.

“Then you are having us watched.  Why?”

“Somebody must watch.  Your people keep such a good look-out—­don’t they?  Yes.  Ever since dark one of my boats has been dodging astern here, in the deep water.  I swore to myself I would never see one of you, never speak to one of you here, that I would be dumb, blind, deaf.  And—­here I am!”

Mrs. Travers’ alarm and mistrust were replaced by an immense curiosity, burning, yet quiet, too, as if before the inevitable work of destiny.  She looked downward at Lingard.  His head was bared, and, with one hand upon the ship’s side, he seemed to be thinking deeply.