him since last year.  He was, however, inclined to think that Falk must have gone mad quite recently; for no sane person, without necessity, uselessly, for no earthly reason, and regardless of another’s self-respect and peace of mind, would own to having devoured human flesh.  “Why tell?” he cried.  “Who was asking him?” It showed Falk’s brutality because after all he had selfishly caused him (Hermann) much pain.  He would have preferred not to know that such an unclean creature had been in the habit of caressing his children.  He hoped I would say nothing of all this ashore, though.  He wouldn’t like it to get about that he had been intimate with an eater of men—­a common cannibal.  As to the scene he had made (which I judged quite unnecessary) he was not going to inconvenience and restrain himself for a fellow that went about courting and upsetting girls’ heads, while he knew all the time that no decent housewifely girl could think of marrying him.  At least he (Hermann) could not conceive how any girl could.  Fancy Lena! . . .  No, it was impossible.  The thoughts that would come into their heads every time they sat down to a meal.  Horrible!  Horrible!

“You are too squeamish, Hermann,” I said.

He seemed to think it was eminently proper to be squeamish if the word meant disgust at Falk’s conduct; and turning up his eyes sentimentally he drew my attention to the horrible fate of the victims—­the victims of that Falk.  I said that I knew nothing about them.  He seemed surprised.  Could not anybody imagine without knowing?  He—­for instance—­felt he would like to avenge them.  But what if—­said I—­there had not been any?  They might have died as it were, naturally—­of starvation.  He shuddered.  But to be eaten—­after death!  To be devoured!  He gave another deep shudder, and asked suddenly, “Do you think it is true?”

His indignation and his personality together would have been enough to spoil the reality of the most authentic thing.  When I looked at him I doubted the story—­but the remembrance of Falk’s words, looks, gestures, invested it not only with an air of reality but with the absolute truth of primitive passion.

“It is true just as much as you are able to make it; and exactly in the way you like to make it.  For my part, when I hear you clamouring about it, I don’t believe it is true at all.”

And I left him pondering.  The men in my boat lying at the foot of Diana’s side ladder told me that the captain of the tug had gone away in his gig some time ago.

I let my fellows pull an easy stroke; because of the heavy dew the clear sparkle of the stars seemed to fall on me cold and wetting.  There was a sense of lurking gruesome horror somewhere in my mind, and it was mingled with clear and grotesque images.  Schomberg’s gastronomic tittle-tattle was responsible for these; and I half hoped I should never see Falk again.  But the first thing my anchor-watchman told me was that the captain of the tug was on board.  He had sent his boat away and was now waiting for me in the cuddy.