When, after a period of meditation, he looked round, Jaffir was no
longer by his side. He had descended from the high place and was
probably squatting on his heels in some dark nook on the fore deck.
Jorgenson knew Jaffir too well to suppose that he would go to sleep.
He would sit there thinking himself into a state of fury, then get away
from the Emma in some way or other, go ashore and perish fighting. He
would, in fact, run amok; for it looked as if there could be no way out
of the situation. Then, of course, Lingard would know nothing of Hassim
and Immada's captivity for the ring would never reach him--the ring that
could tell its own tale. No, Lingard would know nothing. He would know
nothing about anybody outside Belarab's stockade till the end came,
whatever the end might be, for all those people that lived the life of
men. Whether to know or not to know would be good for Lingard Jorgenson
could not tell. He admitted to himself that here there was something
that he, Jorgenson, could not tell. All the possibilities were wrapped
up in doubt, uncertain, like all things pertaining to the life of men.
It was only when giving a short thought to himself that Jorgenson had no
doubt. He, of course, would know what to do.
On the thin face of that old adventurer hidden in the night not a
feature moved, not a muscle twitched, as he descended in his turn and
walked aft along the decks of the Emma.
Pages:
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453