rd
her whispering something, and bent over to listen. He caught the word
"Forgive."

That was what she came for! All that way. Women are queer. Forgive. Not
he! . . . All at once this thought darted through his brain: How did she
come? In a boat. Boat! boat!

He shouted "Boat!" and jumped up, knocking her over. Before she had time
to pick herself up he pounced upon her and was dragging her up by the
shoulders. No sooner had she regained her feet than she clasped him
tightly round the neck, covering his face, his eyes, his mouth, his
nose with desperate kisses. He dodged his head about, shaking her arms,
trying to keep her off, to speak, to ask her. . . . She came in a
boat, boat, boat! . . . They struggled and swung round, tramping in a
semicircle. He blurted out, "Leave off. Listen," while he tore at her
hands. This meeting of lawful love and sincere joy resembled fight.
Louis Willems slept peacefully under his blanket.

At last Willems managed to free himself, and held her off, pressing
her arms down. He looked at her. He had half a suspicion that he was
dreaming. Her lips trembled; her eyes wandered unsteadily, always coming
back to his face. He saw her the same as ever, in his presence. She
appeared startled, tremulous, ready to cry. She did not inspire him with
confidence. He shouted--

"How did you come?"

She answered in hurried words, looking at him intently--

"In a big canoe with three men. I know everything. Lingard's away. I
come to save you. I know. . . . Almayer told me."

"Canoe!--Almayer--Lies. Told you--You!" stammered Willems in a
distracted manner. "Why you?--Told what?"

Words failed him. He stared at his wife, thinking with fear that
she--stupid woman--had been made a tool in some plan of treachery . . .
in some deadly plot.

She began to cry--

"Don't look at me like that, Peter. What have I done? I come to beg--to
beg--forgiveness. . . . Save--Lingard--danger."

He trembled with impatience, with hope, with fear. She looked at him and
sobbed out in a fresh outburst of grief--

"Oh! Peter. What's the matter?--Are you ill? . . . Oh! you look so
ill . . ."

He shook her violently into a terrified and wondering silence.

"How dare you!--I am well--perfectly well. . . . Where's that boat? Will
you tell me where that boat is--at last? The boat, I say . . .
You! . . ."

"You hurt me," she moaned.

He let her go, and, mastering her terror, she stood quivering and
looking at him with