egin to pant quickly, as though he had been
running, and then breathe largely, swelling with the intimate sense of
a mastered fate. Now and then he would hear the shuffle of the Serang's
bare feet up there: quiet, low voices would exchange a few words, and
lapse almost at once into silence. . . .

"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 l