und conviction of his cries. And
after he had left me alone I called up before my mental eye the image
of the girl weeping silently, abundantly, patiently, and as if
irresistibly. I thought of her tawny hair. I thought how, if unplaited,
it would have covered her all round as low as the hips, like the hair of
a siren. And she had bewitched him. Fancy a man who would guard his
own life with the inflexibility of a pitiless and immovable fate, being
brought to lament that once a crowbar had missed his skull! The sirens
sing and lure to death, but this one had been weeping silently as if
for the pity of his life. She was the tender and voiceless siren of this
appalling navigator. He evidently wanted to live his whole conception
of life. Nothing else would do. And she too was a servant of that
life that, in the midst of death, cries aloud to our senses. She was
eminently fitted to interpret for him its feminine side. And in her own
way, and with her own profusion of sensuous charms, she also seemed
to illustrate the eternal truth of an unerring principle. I don't know
though what sort of principle Hermann illustrated when he turned up
early on board my ship with a most perplexed air. It struck me, however,
that he too would do his best to survive. He seemed greatly calmed on
the subject of Falk, but still very full of it.

"What is it you said I was last night? You know," he asked after some
preliminary talk. "Too--too--I don't know. A very funny word."

"Squeamish?" I suggested.

"Yes. What does it mean?"

"That you exaggerate things--to yourself. Without inquiry, and so on."

He seemed to turn it over in his mind. We went on talking. This Falk was
the plague of his life. Upsetting everybody like this! Mrs. Hermann was
unwell rather this morning. His niece was crying still. There was nobody
to look after the children. He struck his umbrella on the deck. She
would be like that for months. Fancy carrying all the way home, second
class, a perfectly useless girl who is crying all the time. It was
bad for Lena too, he observed; but on what grounds I could not guess.
Perhaps of the bad example. That child was already sorrowing and crying
enough over the rag doll. Nicholas was really the least sentimental
person of the family.

"Why does she weep?" I asked.

"From pity," cried Hermann.

It was impossible to make out women. Mrs. Hermann was the only one he
pretended to understand. She was very, very upset and doubtful.