Lingard laid the glass down.
"Mr. d'Alcacer, too, seems to have been avoiding me," said Mrs. Travers.
"You are on very good terms with him, Captain Lingard."
"He is a very pleasant man," murmured Lingard, absently. "But he says
funny things sometimes. He inquired the other day if there were any
playing cards on board, and when I asked him if he liked card-playing,
just for something to say, he told me with that queer smile of his that
he had read a story of some people condemned to death who passed the
time before execution playing card games with their guards."
"And what did you say?"
"I told him that there were probably cards on board somewhere--Jorgenson
would know. Then I asked him whether he looked on me as a gaoler. He was
quite startled and sorry for what he said."
"It wasn't very kind of you, Captain Lingard."
"It slipped out awkwardly and we made it up with a laugh."
Mrs. Travers leaned her elbows on the rail and put her head into her
hands. Every attitude of that woman surprised Lingard by its enchanting
effect upon himself. He sighed, and the silence lasted for a long while.
"I wish I had understood every word that was said that morning."
"That morning," repeated Lingard. "What morning do you mean?"
"I mean the morning when I walked out of Belarab's stockade on your arm,
Captain Lingard, at the head of the procession.
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