He was speaking again.  He had not been silent more than a minute.  It seemed to Mrs. Travers that years had elapsed, so different now was the effect of his words.  Her mind was agitated as if his coming to speak and confide in her had been a tremendous occurrence.  It was a fact of her own existence; it was part of the story also.  This was the disturbing thought.  She heard him pronounce several names:  Belarab, Daman, Tengga, Ningrat.  These belonged now to her life and she was appalled to find she was unable to connect these names with any human appearance.  They stood out alone, as if written on the night; they took on a symbolic shape; they imposed themselves upon her senses.  She whispered as if pondering:  “Belarab, Daman, Ningrat,” and these barbarous sounds seemed to possess an exceptional energy, a fatal aspect, the savour of madness.

“Not one of them but has a heavy score to settle with the whites.  What’s that to me!  I had somehow to get men who would fight.  I risked my life to get that lot.  I made them promises which I shall keep—­or—!  Can you see now why I dared to stop your boat?  I am in so deep that I care for no Sir John in the world.  When I look at the work ahead I care for nothing.  I gave you one chance—­one good chance.  That I had to do.  No!  I suppose I didn’t look enough of a gentleman.  Yes!  Yes!  That’s it.  Yet I know what a gentleman is.  I lived with them for years.  I chummed with them—­yes—­on gold-fields and in other places where a man has got to show the stuff that’s in him.  Some of them write from home to me here—­such as you see me, because I—­never mind!  And I know what a gentleman would do.  Come!  Wouldn’t he treat a stranger fairly?  Wouldn’t he remember that no man is a liar till you prove him so?  Wouldn’t he keep his word wherever given?  Well, I am going to do that.  Not a hair of your head shall be touched as long as I live!”

She had regained much of her composure but at these words she felt that staggering sense of utter insecurity which is given one by the first tremor of an earthquake.  It was followed by an expectant stillness of sensations.  She remained silent.  He thought she did not believe him.

“Come!  What on earth do you think brought me here—­to—­to—­talk like this to you?  There was Hassim—­Rajah Tulla, I should say—­who was asking me this afternoon:  ‘What will you do now with these, your people?’ I believe he thinks yet I fetched you here for some reason.  You can’t tell what crooked notion they will get into their thick heads.  It’s enough to make one swear.”  He swore.  “My people!  Are you?  How much?  Say—­how much?  You’re no more mine than I am yours.  Would any of you fine folks at home face black ruin to save a fishing smack’s crew from getting drowned?”

Notwithstanding that sense of insecurity which lingered faintly in her mind she had no image of death before her.  She felt intensely alive.  She felt alive in a flush of strength, with an impression of novelty as though life had been the gift of this very moment.  The danger hidden in the night gave no sign to awaken her terror, but the workings of a human soul, simple and violent, were laid bare before her and had the disturbing charm of an unheard-of experience.  She was listening to a man who concealed nothing.  She said, interrogatively: