And then, if need be,
he could put forth all his power against the chief of the sea-vagabonds
who would, as a matter of fact, be negotiating under the shadow of the
sword.
Belarab talked, low-voiced and dignified, with now and then a subtle
intonation, a persuasive inflexion or a half-melancholy smile in the
course of the argument. What encouraged him most was the changed aspect
of his white friend. The fierce power of his personality seemed to have
turned into a dream. Lingard listened, growing gradually inscrutable in
his continued silence, but remaining gentle in a sort of rapt patience
as if lapped in the wings of the Angel of Peace himself. Emboldened by
that transformation, Belarab's counsellors seated on the mats murmured
loudly their assent to the views of the Chief. Through the thickening
white mist of tropical lands, the light of the tropical day filtered
into the hall. One of the wise men got up from the floor and with
prudent fingers began extinguishing the waxlights one by one. He
hesitated to touch the lamps, the flames of which looked yellow and
cold. A puff of the morning breeze entered the great room, faint and
chill. Lingard, facing Belarab in a wooden armchair, with slack
limbs and in the divine emptiness of a mind enchanted by a glimpse of
Paradise, shuddered profoundly.
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