Never had there been such a generous friendship. . . . A mass of white
foam whirling about a centre of intense blackness spun silently past the
side of the boat. . . . That woman he held like a captive on his arm had
also been given to him by the Shallows.
Suddenly his eyes caught on a distant sandbank the red gleam of Daman's
camp fire instantly eclipsed like the wink of a signalling lantern along
the level of the waters. It brought to his mind the existence of the two
men--those other captives. If the war canoe transporting them into the
lagoon had left the sands shortly after Hassim's retreat from Daman's
camp, Travers and d'Alcacer were by this time far away up the creek.
Every thought of action had become odious to Lingard since all he could
do in the world now was to hasten the moment of his separation from that
woman to whom he had confessed the whole secret of his life.
And she slept. She could sleep! He looked down at her as he would have
looked at the slumbering ignorance of a child, but the life within him
had the fierce beat of supreme moments. Near by, the eddies sighed along
the reefs, the water soughed amongst the stones, clung round the rocks
with tragic murmurs that resembled promises, good-byes, or prayers. From
the unfathomable distances of the night came the booming of the swell
assaulting the seaward face of the Shallows.
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