o, only
last evening, that I was not capable of thinking myself into a fright;
you remember, when you were begging me to try something of the kind.
Don't imagine that I would have been ashamed to try. But I couldn't have
done it. No. Not even for the sake of somebody else's kingdom. Do you
understand me?"

"God knows," said the attentive Lingard after a time, with an unexpected
sigh. "You people seem to be made of another stuff."

"What has put that absurd notion into your head?"

"I didn't mean better or worse. And I wouldn't say it isn't good stuff
either. What I meant to say is that it's different. One feels it. And
here we are."

"Yes, here we are," repeated Mrs. Travers. "And as to this moment of
emotion, what provoked it is not a concern for anybody or anything
outside myself. I felt no terror. I cannot even fix my fears upon any
distinct image. You think I am shamelessly heartless in telling you
this."

Lingard made no sign. It didn't occur to him to make a sign. He
simply hung on Mrs. Travers' words as it were only for the sake of the
sound.--"I am simply frank with you," she continued. "What do I know of
savagery, violence, murder? I have never seen a dead body in my life.
The light, the silence, the mysterious emptiness of this place have
suddenly affected my imagination, I suppose. What is the meaning of this
wonderful peace in which we stand--you and I alone?"

Lingard shook his head. He saw the narrow gleam of the woman's teeth
between the parted lips of her smile, as if all the ardour of her
conviction had been dissolved at the end of her speech into wistful
recognition of their partnership before things outside their knowledge.
And he was warmed by something a little helpless in that smile. Within
three feet of them the shade of Jorgenson, very gaunt and neat, stared
into space.

"Yes. You are strong," said Lingard. "But a whole long night sitting in
a small boat! I wonder you are not too stiff to stand."

"I am not stiff in the least," she interrupted, still smiling. "I am
really a very strong woman," she added, earnestly. "Whatever happens you
may reckon on that fact."

Lingard gave her an admiring glance. But the shade of Jorgenson, perhaps
catching in its remoteness the sound of the word woman, was suddenly
moved to begin scolding with all the liberty of a ghost, in a flow of
passionless indignation.

"Woman! That's what I say. That's just about the last touch--that you,
Tom Lingard, red