The gloom of the
forest fell on her, mournful like a winding sheet. The bushes of the
bank tapped their twigs on the bluff of her bows, and a pendent spike of
tiny brown blossoms swung to and fro over the ruins of her windlass.
Hassim's companions garrisoned the old hulk, and Jorgenson, left
in charge, prowled about from stem to stern, taciturn and anxiously
faithful to his trust. He had been received with astonishment,
respect--and awe. Belarab visited him often. Sometimes those whom he had
known in their prime years ago, during a struggle for faith and life,
would come to talk with the white man. Their voices were like the echoes
of stirring events, in the pale glamour of a youth gone by. They nodded
their old heads. Do you remember?--they said. He remembered only too
well! He was like a man raised from the dead, for whom the fascinating
trust in the power of life is tainted by the black scepticism of the
grave.
Only at times the invincible belief in the reality of existence would
come back, insidious and inspiring. He squared his shoulders, held
himself straight, and walked with a firmer step. He felt a glow within
him and the quickened beat of his heart. Then he calculated in silent
excitement Lingard's chances of success, and he lived for a time with
the life of that other man who knew nothing of the black scepticism of
the grave.
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