"--"It's true--it's true," muttered Lingard to
himself. Carter threw up his arms with a groan. "Stand back," said a
voice that sounded to him like a growl of thunder, and he felt a grip
on his hand which seemed to crush every bone. He jerked it away.--"Mrs.
Travers! stay," he cried. They had vanished through the open door and
the sound of their footsteps had already died away. Carter turned about
bewildered as if looking for help.--"Who is he, steward? Who in the name
of all the mad devils is he?" he asked, wildly. He was confounded by the
cold and philosophical tone of the answer:--"'Tain't my place to trouble
about that, sir--nor yours I guess."--"Isn't it!" shouted Carter. "Why,
he has carried the lady off." The steward was looking critically at
the lamp and after a while screwed the light down.--"That's better," he
mumbled.--"Good God! What is a fellow to do?" continued Carter, looking
at Hassim and Immada who were whispering together and gave him only an
absent glance. He rushed on deck and was struck blind instantly by the
night that seemed to have been lying in wait for him; he stumbled over
something soft, kicked something hard, flung himself on the rail. "Come
back," he cried. "Come back. Captain! Mrs. Travers!--or let me come,
too."
He listened. The breeze blew cool against his cheek.
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