“I quite understand,” I conveyed that sincere assurance into his ear.  He was out of breath with whispering; I could hear him pant slightly.  It was all very simple.  The same strung-up force which had given twenty-four men a chance, at least, for their lives, had, in a sort of recoil, crushed an unworthy mutinous existence.

But I had no leisure to weigh the merits of the matter—­footsteps in the saloon, a heavy knock.  “There’s enough wind to get under way with, sir.”  Here was the call of a new claim upon my thoughts and even upon my feelings.

“Turn the hands up,” I cried through the door.  “I’ll be on deck directly.”

I was going out to make the acquaintance of my ship.  Before I left the cabin our eyes met—­the eyes of the only two strangers on board.  I pointed to the recessed part where the little campstool awaited him and laid my finger on my lips.  He made a gesture—­somewhat vague—­a little mysterious, accompanied by a faint smile, as if of regret.

This is not the place to enlarge upon the sensations of a man who feels for the first time a ship move under his feet to his own independent word.  In my case they were not unalloyed.  I was not wholly alone with my command; for there was that stranger in my cabin.  Or rather, I was not completely and wholly with her.  Part of me was absent.  That mental feeling of being in two places at once affected me physically as if the mood of secrecy had penetrated my very soul.  Before an hour had elapsed since the ship had begun to move, having occasion to ask the mate (he stood by my side) to take a compass bearing of the pagoda, I caught myself reaching up to his ear in whispers.  I say I caught myself, but enough had escaped to startle the man.  I can’t describe it otherwise than by saying that he shied.  A grave, preoccupied manner, as though he were in possession of some perplexing intelligence, did not leave him henceforth.  A little later I moved away from the rail to look at the compass with such a stealthy gait that the helmsman noticed it—­and I could not help noticing the unusual roundness of his eyes.  These are trifling instances, though it’s to no commander’s advantage to be suspected of ludicrous eccentricities.  But I was also more seriously affected.  There are to a seaman certain words, gestures, that should in given conditions come as naturally, as instinctively as the winking of a menaced eye.  A certain order should spring on to his lips without thinking; a certain sign should get itself made, so to speak, without reflection.  But all unconscious alertness had abandoned me.  I had to make an effort of will to recall myself back (from the cabin) to the conditions of the moment.  I felt that I was appearing an irresolute commander to those people who were watching me more or less critically.

And, besides, there were the scares.  On the second day out, for instance, coming off the deck in the afternoon (I had straw slippers on my bare feet) I stopped at the open pantry door and spoke to the steward.  He was doing something there with his back to me.  At the sound of my voice he nearly jumped out of his skin, as the saying is, and incidentally broke a cup.