His voice vibrated. In the pause that succeeded they heard a light sigh
of the sleeping follower who, clasping his legs above his ankles, rested
his forehead on his knees.
"And there was amongst us," began Belarab again, "one white man who
remained to the end, who was faithful with his strength, with his
courage, with his wisdom. A great man. He had great riches but a greater
heart."
The memory of Jorgenson, emaciated and grey-haired, and trying to borrow
five dollars to get something to eat for the girl, passed before Lingard
suddenly upon the pacific glitter of the stars.
"He resembled you," pursued Belarab, abruptly. "We escaped with him, and
in his ship came here. It was a solitude. The forest came near to the
sheet of water, the rank grass waved upon the heads of tall men. Telal,
my father, died of weariness; we were only a few, and we all nearly died
of trouble and sadness--here. On this spot! And no enemies could tell
where we had gone. It was the Shore of Refuge--and starvation."
He droned on in the night, with rising and falling inflections. He told
how his desperate companions wanted to go out and die fighting on the
sea against the ships from the west, the ships with high sides and white
sails; and how, unflinching and alone, he kept them battling with the
thorny bush, with the rank grass, with the soaring and enormous trees.
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