Lingard, leaning on the rail, fell into
a sombre reverie of his past. Reproachful spectres crowded the air,
animated and vocal, not in the articulate language of mortals but
assailing him with faint sobs, deep sighs, and fateful gestures. When he
came to himself and turned about they vanished, all but one dark shape
without sound or movement. Lingard looked at it with secret horror.
"Who's that?" he asked in a troubled voice.
The shadow moved closer: "It's only me, sir," said Carter, who had left
orders to be called directly the Captain was seen on deck.
"Oh, yes, I might have known," mumbled Lingard in some confusion. He
requested Carter to have a boat manned and when after a time the young
man told him that it was ready, he said "All right!" and remained
leaning on his elbow.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Carter after a longish silence, "but are
you going some distance?"
"No, I only want to be put ashore on the sandbank."
Carter was relieved to hear this, but also surprised. "There is nothing
living there, sir," he said.
"I wonder," muttered Lingard.
"But I am certain," Carter insisted. "The last of the women and children
belonging to those cut-throats were taken off by the sampans which
brought you and the yacht-party out."
He walked at Lingard's elbow to the gangway and listened to his orders.
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