The sun declining to the
westward threw shafts of light across his dark path. He ran at a springy
half-trot, his eyes watchful, his broad chest heaving, and carrying
the emerald ring on the forefinger of a clenched hand as though he were
afraid it should slip off, fly off, be torn from him by an invisible
force, or spirited away by some enchantment. Who could tell what
might happen? There were evil forces at work in the world, powerful
incantations, horrible apparitions. The messenger of princes and of
great men, charged with the supreme appeal of his master, was afraid
in the deepening shade of the forest. Evil presences might have been
lurking in that gloom. Still the sun had not set yet. He could see its
face through the leaves as he skirted the shore of the lagoon. But what
if Allah's call should come to him suddenly and he die as he ran!
He drew a long breath on the shore of the lagoon within about a hundred
yards from the stranded bows of the Emma. The tide was out and he
walked to the end of a submerged log and sent out a hail for a boat.
Jorgenson's voice answered. The sun had sunk behind the forest belt of
the coast. All was still as far as the eye could reach over the black
water. A slight breeze came along it and Jaffir on the brink, waiting
for a canoe, shivered a little.
Pages:
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448