At their posts, flattened against the stakes near convenient
loopholes, they cast backward glances and exchanged faint whispers from
time to time.
Lingard might have thought himself alone. He had lost touch with the
world. What he had said to d'Alcacer was perfectly true. He had no
thought. He was in the state of a man who, having cast his eyes through
the open gates of Paradise, is rendered insensible by that moment's
vision to all the forms and matters of the earth; and in the extremity
of his emotion ceases even to look upon himself but as the subject of
a sublime experience which exalts or unfits, sanctifies or damns--he
didn't know which. Every shadowy thought, every passing sensation was
like a base intrusion on that supreme memory. He couldn't bear it.
When he had tried to resume his conversation with Belarab after Mrs.
Travers' arrival he had discovered himself unable to go on. He had just
enough self-control to break off the interview in measured terms. He
pointed out the lateness of the hour, a most astonishing excuse to
people to whom time is nothing and whose life and activities are not
ruled by the clock. Indeed Lingard hardly knew what he was saying or
doing when he went out again leaving everybody dumb with astonishment
at the change in his aspect and in his behaviour.
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