’They watched in the dark with their heads half turned to windward as if expecting to hear cries.  At first he was thankful the night had covered up the scene before his eyes, and then to know of it and yet to have seen and heard nothing appeared somehow the culminating point of an awful misfortune.  “Strange, isn’t it?” he murmured, interrupting himself in his disjointed narrative.

’It did not seem so strange to me.  He must have had an unconscious conviction that the reality could not be half as bad, not half as anguishing, appalling, and vengeful as the created terror of his imagination.  I believe that, in this first moment, his heart was wrung with all the suffering, that his soul knew the accumulated savour of all the fear, all the horror, all the despair of eight hundred human beings pounced upon in the night by a sudden and violent death, else why should he have said, “It seemed to me that I must jump out of that accursed boat and swim back to see—­half a mile—­more—­any distance—­to the very spot . . .”?  Why this impulse?  Do you see the significance?  Why back to the very spot?  Why not drown alongside—­if he meant drowning?  Why back to the very spot, to see—­as if his imagination had to be soothed by the assurance that all was over before death could bring relief?  I defy any one of you to offer another explanation.  It was one of those bizarre and exciting glimpses through the fog.  It was an extraordinary disclosure.  He let it out as the most natural thing one could say.  He fought down that impulse and then he became conscious of the silence.  He mentioned this to me.  A silence of the sea, of the sky, merged into one indefinite immensity still as death around these saved, palpitating lives.  “You might have heard a pin drop in the boat,” he said with a queer contraction of his lips, like a man trying to master his sensibilities while relating some extremely moving fact.  A silence!  God alone, who had willed him as he was, knows what he made of it in his heart.  “I didn’t think any spot on earth could be so still,” he said.  “You couldn’t distinguish the sea from the sky; there was nothing to see and nothing to hear.  Not a glimmer, not a shape, not a sound.  You could have believed that every bit of dry land had gone to the bottom; that every man on earth but I and these beggars in the boat had got drowned.”  He leaned over the table with his knuckles propped amongst coffee-cups, liqueur-glasses, cigar-ends.  “I seemed to believe it.  Everything was gone and—­all was over . . .” he fetched a deep sigh . . . “with me."’

Marlow sat up abruptly and flung away his cheroot with force.  It made a darting red trail like a toy rocket fired through the drapery of creepers.  Nobody stirred.

‘Hey, what do you think of it?’ he cried with sudden animation.  ’Wasn’t he true to himself, wasn’t he?  His saved life was over for want of ground under his feet, for want of sights for his eyes, for want of voices in his ears.  Annihilation—­hey!  And all the time it was only a clouded sky, a sea that did not break, the air that did not stir.  Only a night; only a silence.