refusal to make over at once the promised supply
of arms and ammunition. And now that white man had by the power of his
speech got them away from Belarab's people. So much influence filled
Daman with wonder and awe. A recluse for many years in the most obscure
corner of the Archipelago he felt himself surrounded by intrigues. But
the alliance was a great thing, too. He did not want to quarrel. He was
quite willing for the time being to accept Lingard's assurance that no
harm should befall his people encamped on the sandbanks. Attentive and
slight, he seemed to let Lingard's deliberate words sink into him. The
force of that unarmed big man seemed overwhelming. He bowed his head
slowly.

"Allah is our refuge," he murmured, accepting the inevitable.

He delighted Mrs. Travers not as a living being but like a clever
sketch in colours, a vivid rendering of an artist's vision of some soul,
delicate and fierce. His bright half-smile was extraordinary, sharp like
clear steel, painfully penetrating. Glancing right and left Mrs. Travers
saw the whole courtyard smitten by the desolating fury of sunshine and
peopled with shadows, their forms and colours fading in the violence of
the light. The very brown tones of roof and wall dazzled the eye. Then
Daman stepped aside. He was no longer smiling and Mrs. Travers advanced
with her hand on Lingard's arm through a heat so potent that it seemed
to have a taste, a feel, a smell of its own. She moved on as if floating
in it with Lingard's support.

"Where are they?" she asked.

"They are following us all right," he answered. Lingard was so certain
that the prisoners would be delivered to him on the beach that he never
glanced back till, after reaching the boat, he and Mrs. Travers turned
about.

The group of spearmen parted right and left, and Mr. Travers and
d'Alcacer walked forward alone looking unreal and odd like their own
day-ghosts. Mr. Travers gave no sign of being aware of his wife's
presence. It was certainly a shock to him. But d'Alcacer advanced
smiling, as if the beach were a drawing room.

With a very few paddlers the heavy old European-built boat moved
slowly over the water that seemed as pale and blazing as the sky above.
Jorgenson had perched himself in the bow. The other four white people
sat in the stern sheets, the ex-prisoners side by side in the middle.
Lingard spoke suddenly.

"I want you both to understand that the trouble is not over yet. Nothing
is finishe