ressure against his ear-drums; a violent nausea; the crowd of curious
faces blurred, disappeared--he was drowning in a noisy darkness.... He
gasped, struggled, struck out with his arms, shouted, went down in
that suffocating flood of unconsciousness....

Opening his eyes after an indeterminate interval, he found himself in
the street. The air was cool after the fetid staleness of that room.
He was still holding the Negro's hand. And above them the stars
burned, remote and calm, like beacon lamps in a dark harbour....

The Negro whimpered: "I don't know the way, boss. I'm lost."

"Where is your ship?"

"In the _Vieux Port_, near the fort."

They walked together through the silent streets. I say that they
walked. It was rather that Grimshaw found himself on the quay, the
Negro still at his side. A few prowling sailors passed them. But for
the most part the waterfront was deserted. The ships lay side by
side--an intricate tangle of bowsprits and rigging, masts and chains.
Around them the water was black as basalt, only that now and again a
spark of light was struck by the faint lifting of the current against
the immovable hulls.

The Negro shuffled forward, peering. A lantern flashed on one of the
big schooners. Looking up, Grimshaw saw the name: "_Anne Beebe, New
Orleans_." A querulous voice, somewhere on the deck, demanded: "That
you, Richardson?" And then, angrily: "This damned place--dark as
hell.... Who's there?"

Grimshaw answered: "One of your crew."

The man on deck stared down at the quay a moment. Then, apparently
having seen nothing, he turned away, and the lantern bobbed aft like a
drifting ember. The Negro moaned. Holding both hands over the deep
wound in his breast, he slowly climbed the side ladder, turned once,
to look at Grimshaw, and disappeared....

Grimshaw felt again the rushing darkness. Again he struggled. And
again, opening his eyes after a moment of blankness, he found himself
kneeling on the sanded floor of the cafe, holding the dead Negro in
his arms. He glanced down at the face, astounded by the look of placid
satisfaction in those wide-open eyes, the smile of recognition, of
gratification, of some nameless and magnificent content....

The woman Marie touched his shoulder. "The fellow's dead, _m'sieur_.
We had better go."

Grimshaw followed her into the street. He noticed that there were no
stars. A bitter wind, forerunner of the implacable _mistral_, had come
up. The door of the c