if it had been her recorded fate to die obscurely under the blows of many hammers.  What were the various ends their destiny provided for the pilgrims I am unable to say; but the immediate future brought, at about nine o’clock next morning, a French gunboat homeward bound from Reunion.  The report of her commander was public property.  He had swept a little out of his course to ascertain what was the matter with that steamer floating dangerously by the head upon a still and hazy sea.  There was an ensign, union down, flying at her main gaff (the serang had the sense to make a signal of distress at daylight); but the cooks were preparing the food in the cooking-boxes forward as usual.  The decks were packed as close as a sheep-pen:  there were people perched all along the rails, jammed on the bridge in a solid mass; hundreds of eyes stared, and not a sound was heard when the gunboat ranged abreast, as if all that multitude of lips had been sealed by a spell.

’The Frenchman hailed, could get no intelligible reply, and after ascertaining through his binoculars that the crowd on deck did not look plague-stricken, decided to send a boat.  Two officers came on board, listened to the serang, tried to talk with the Arab, couldn’t make head or tail of it:  but of course the nature of the emergency was obvious enough.  They were also very much struck by discovering a white man, dead and curled up peacefully on the bridge.  “Fort intrigues par ce cadavre,” as I was informed a long time after by an elderly French lieutenant whom I came across one afternoon in Sydney, by the merest chance, in a sort of cafe, and who remembered the affair perfectly.  Indeed this affair, I may notice in passing, had an extraordinary power of defying the shortness of memories and the length of time:  it seemed to live, with a sort of uncanny vitality, in the minds of men, on the tips of their tongues.  I’ve had the questionable pleasure of meeting it often, years afterwards, thousands of miles away, emerging from the remotest possible talk, coming to the surface of the most distant allusions.  Has it not turned up to-night between us?  And I am the only seaman here.  I am the only one to whom it is a memory.  And yet it has made its way out!  But if two men who, unknown to each other, knew of this affair met accidentally on any spot of this earth, the thing would pop up between them as sure as fate, before they parted.  I had never seen that Frenchman before, and at the end of an hour we had done with each other for life:  he did not seem particularly talkative either; he was a quiet, massive chap in a creased uniform, sitting drowsily over a tumbler half full of some dark liquid.  His shoulder-straps were a bit tarnished, his clean-shaved cheeks were large and sallow; he looked like a man who would be given to taking snuff—­don’t you know?  I won’t say he did; but the habit would have fitted that kind of man.  It all began by his handing me a number of Home News, which I didn’t want, across the marble table.  I said “Merci.”  We exchanged a few apparently innocent remarks, and suddenly, before I knew how it had come about, we were in the midst of it, and he was telling me how much they had been “intrigued by that corpse.”  It turned out he had been one of the boarding officers.