What of it that the narrator was only a roving seaman; the kingdom of
the jungle, the men of the forest, the lives obscure! That simple soul
was possessed by the greatness of the idea; there was nothing sordid in
its flaming impulses. When she once understood that, the story appealed
to the audacity of her thoughts, and she became so charmed with what she
heard that she forgot where she was. She forgot that she was personally
close to that tale which she saw detached, far away from her, truth or
fiction, presented in picturesque speech, real only by the response of
her emotion.
Lingard paused. In the cessation of the impassioned murmur she began to
reflect. And at first it was only an oppressive notion of there being
some significance that really mattered in this man's story. That
mattered to her. For the first time the shadow of danger and death
crossed her mind. Was that the significance? Suddenly, in a flash of
acute discernment, she saw herself involved helplessly in that story, as
one is involved in a natural cataclysm.
He was speaking again. He had not been silent more than a minute. It
seemed to Mrs. Travers that years had elapsed, so different now was the
effect of his words. Her mind was agitated as if his coming to speak and
confide in her had been a tremendous occurrence.
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