“You love her,” she said, softly.

“Like my own daughter,” he cried, low.

Mrs. Travers said, “Oh!” faintly, and for a moment there was a silence, then he began again: 

“Look here.  When I was a boy in a trawler, and looked at you yacht people, in the Channel ports, you were as strange to me as the Malays here are strange to you.  I left home sixteen years ago and fought my way all round the earth.  I had the time to forget where I began.  What are you to me against these two?  If I was to die here on the spot would you care?  No one would care at home.  No one in the whole world—­but these two.”

“What can I do?” she asked, and waited, leaning over.

He seemed to reflect, then lifting his head, spoke gently: 

“Do you understand the danger you are in?  Are you afraid?”

“I understand the expression you used, of course.  Understand the danger?” she went on.  “No—­decidedly no.  And—­honestly—­I am not afraid.”

“Aren’t you?” he said in a disappointed voice.  “Perhaps you don’t believe me?  I believed you, though, when you said you were sure I meant well.  I trusted you enough to come here asking for your help—­telling you what no one knows.”

“You mistake me,” she said with impulsive earnestness.  “This is so extraordinarily unusual—­sudden—­outside my experience.”

“Aye!” he murmured, “what would you know of danger and trouble?  You!  But perhaps by thinking it over—­”

“You want me to think myself into a fright!” Mrs. Travers laughed lightly, and in the gloom of his thought this flash of joyous sound was incongruous and almost terrible.  Next moment the night appeared brilliant as day, warm as sunshine; but when she ceased the returning darkness gave him pain as if it had struck heavily against his breast.  “I don’t think I could do that,” she finished in a serious tone.

“Couldn’t you?” He hesitated, perplexed.  “Things are bad enough to make it no shame.  I tell you,” he said, rapidly, “and I am not a timid man, I may not be able to do much if you people don’t help me.”

“You want me to pretend I am alarmed?” she asked, quickly.

“Aye, to pretend—­as well you may.  It’s a lot to ask of you—­who perhaps never had to make-believe a thing in your life—­isn’t it?”

“It is,” she said after a time.

The unexpected bitterness of her tone struck Lingard with dismay.

“Don’t be offended,” he entreated.  “I’ve got to plan a way out of this mess.  It’s no play either.  Could you pretend?”

“Perhaps, if I tried very hard.  But to what end?”

“You must all shift aboard the brig,” he began, speaking quickly, “and then we may get over this trouble without coming to blows.  Now, if you were to say that you wish it; that you feel unsafe in the yacht—­don’t you see?”

“I see,” she pronounced, thoughtfully.

“The brig is small but the cuddy is fit for a lady,” went on Lingard with animation.