In a far corner upon a few mats the moribund woman, already speechless and unable to lift her arm, rolled her head over, and with a feeble movement of her hand seemed to command—­“No!  No!” and the obedient daughter, setting her shoulders with all her strength against the door, was looking on.  “The tears fell from her eyes—­and then she died,” concluded the girl in an imperturbable monotone, which more than anything else, more than the white statuesque immobility of her person, more than mere words could do, troubled my mind profoundly with the passive, irremediable horror of the scene.  It had the power to drive me out of my conception of existence, out of that shelter each of us makes for himself to creep under in moments of danger, as a tortoise withdraws within its shell.  For a moment I had a view of a world that seemed to wear a vast and dismal aspect of disorder, while, in truth, thanks to our unwearied efforts, it is as sunny an arrangement of small conveniences as the mind of man can conceive.  But still—­it was only a moment:  I went back into my shell directly.  One must—­don’t you know?—­though I seemed to have lost all my words in the chaos of dark thoughts I had contemplated for a second or two beyond the pale.  These came back, too, very soon, for words also belong to the sheltering conception of light and order which is our refuge.  I had them ready at my disposal before she whispered softly, “He swore he would never leave me, when we stood there alone!  He swore to me!”. . .  “And it is possible that you—­you! do not believe him?” I asked, sincerely reproachful, genuinely shocked.  Why couldn’t she believe?  Wherefore this craving for incertitude, this clinging to fear, as if incertitude and fear had been the safeguards of her love.  It was monstrous.  She should have made for herself a shelter of inexpugnable peace out of that honest affection.  She had not the knowledge—­not the skill perhaps.  The night had come on apace; it had grown pitch-dark where we were, so that without stirring she had faded like the intangible form of a wistful and perverse spirit.  And suddenly I heard her quiet whisper again, “Other men had sworn the same thing.”  It was like a meditative comment on some thoughts full of sadness, of awe.  And she added, still lower if possible, “My father did.”  She paused the time to draw an inaudible breath.  “Her father too.” . . .  These were the things she knew!  At once I said, “Ah! but he is not like that.”  This, it seemed, she did not intend to dispute; but after a time the strange still whisper wandering dreamily in the air stole into my ears.  “Why is he different?  Is he better?  Is he . . .”  “Upon my word of honour,” I broke in, “I believe he is.”  We subdued our tones to a mysterious pitch.  Amongst the huts of Jim’s workmen (they were mostly liberated slaves from the Sherif’s stockade) somebody started a shrill, drawling song.  Across the river a big fire (at Doramin’s, I think) made a glowing ball, completely isolated in the night.  “Is he more true?” she murmured.  “Yes,” I said.  “More true than any other man,” she repeated in lingering accents.  “Nobody here,” I said, “would dream of doubting his word—­nobody would dare—­except you.”