A black bandage
seemed to lie over his eyes. "Gone," he groaned, utterly crushed.
And suddenly he heard Mrs. Travers' voice remote in the depths of
the night.--"Defend the brig," it said, and these words, pronouncing
themselves in the immensity of a lightless universe, thrilled every
fibre of his body by the commanding sadness of their tone. "Defend,
defend the brig." . . . "I am damned if I do," shouted Carter in
despair. "Unless you come back! . . . Mrs. Travers!"
". . . as though--I were--on board--myself," went on the rising
cadence of the voice, more distant now, a marvel of faint and imperious
clearness.
Carter shouted no more; he tried to make out the boat for a time, and
when, giving it up, he leaped down from the rail, the heavy obscurity
of the brig's main deck was agitated like a sombre pool by his jump,
swayed, eddied, seemed to break up. Blotches of darkness recoiled,
drifted away, bare feet shuffled hastily, confused murmurs died out.
"Lascars," he muttered, "The crew is all agog." Afterward he listened
for a moment to the faintly tumultuous snores of the white men sleeping
in rows, with their heads under the break of the poop. Somewhere
about his feet, the yacht's black dog, invisible, and chained to a
deck-ringbolt, whined, rattled the thin links, pattered with his claws
in his distress at the unfamiliar surroundings, begging for the charity
of human notice.
Pages:
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284