“Tell me directly you see any land, Serang.”

“Yes, Tuan.  Not yet.”

“No, not yet,” Captain Whalley would agree.

The ship had been the best friend of his decline.  He had sent all the money he had made by and in the Sofala to his daughter.  His thought lingered on the name.  How often he and his wife had talked over the cot of the child in the big stern-cabin of the Condor; she would grow up, she would marry, she would love them, they would live near her and look at her happiness—­it would go on without end.  Well, his wife was dead, to the child he had given all he had to give; he wished he could come near her, see her, see her face once, live in the sound of her voice, that could make the darkness of the living grave ready for him supportable.  He had been starved of love too long.  He imagined her tenderness.

The Serang had been peering forward, and now and then glancing at the chair.  He fidgeted restlessly, and suddenly burst out close to Captain Whalley—­

“Tuan, do you see anything of the land?”

The alarmed voice brought Captain Whalley to his feet at once.  He!  See!  And at the question, the curse of his blindness seemed to fall on him with a hundredfold force.

“What’s the time?” he cried.

“Half-past three, Tuan.”

“We are close.  You must see.  Look, I say.  Look.”

Mr. Massy, awakened by the sudden sound of talking from a short doze on the lowest step, wondered why he was there.  Ah!  A faintness came over him.  It is one thing to sow the seed of an accident and another to see the monstrous fruit hanging over your head ready to fall in the sound of agitated voices.

“There’s no danger,” he muttered thickly.

The horror of incertitude had seized upon Captain Whalley, the miserable mistrust of men, of things—­of the very earth.  He had steered that very course thirty-six times by the same compass—­if anything was certain in this world it was its absolute, unerring correctness.  Then what had happened?  Did the Serang lie?  Why lie?  Why?  Was he going blind too?

“Is there a mist?  Look low on the water.  Low down, I say.”

“Tuan, there’s no mist.  See for yourself.”

Captain Whalley steadied the trembling of his limbs by an effort.  Should he stop the engines at once and give himself away.  A gust of irresolution swayed all sorts of bizarre notions in his mind.  The unusual had come, and he was not fit to deal with it.  In this passage of inexpressible anguish he saw her face—­the face of a young girl—­with an amazing strength of illusion.  No, he must not give himself away after having gone so far for her sake.  “You steered the course?  You made it?  Speak the truth.”

“Ya, Tuan.  On the course now.  Look.”

Captain Whalley strode to the binnacle, which to him made such a dim spot of light in an infinity of shapeless shadow.  By bending his face right down to the glass he had been able before . . .