Opening his eyes after an indeterminate interval, he found himself in the street.  The air was cool after the fetid staleness of that room.  He was still holding the Negro’s hand.  And above them the stars burned, remote and calm, like beacon lamps in a dark harbour....

The Negro whimpered:  “I don’t know the way, boss.  I’m lost.”

“Where is your ship?”

“In the Vieux Port, near the fort.”

They walked together through the silent streets.  I say that they walked.  It was rather that Grimshaw found himself on the quay, the Negro still at his side.  A few prowling sailors passed them.  But for the most part the waterfront was deserted.  The ships lay side by side—­an intricate tangle of bowsprits and rigging, masts and chains.  Around them the water was black as basalt, only that now and again a spark of light was struck by the faint lifting of the current against the immovable hulls.

The Negro shuffled forward, peering.  A lantern flashed on one of the big schooners.  Looking up, Grimshaw saw the name:  “Anne Beebe, New Orleans.”  A querulous voice, somewhere on the deck, demanded:  “That you, Richardson?” And then, angrily:  “This damned place—­dark as hell....  Who’s there?”

Grimshaw answered:  “One of your crew.”

The man on deck stared down at the quay a moment.  Then, apparently having seen nothing, he turned away, and the lantern bobbed aft like a drifting ember.  The Negro moaned.  Holding both hands over the deep wound in his breast, he slowly climbed the side ladder, turned once, to look at Grimshaw, and disappeared....

Grimshaw felt again the rushing darkness.  Again he struggled.  And again, opening his eyes after a moment of blankness, he found himself kneeling on the sanded floor of the cafe, holding the dead Negro in his arms.  He glanced down at the face, astounded by the look of placid satisfaction in those wide-open eyes, the smile of recognition, of gratification, of some nameless and magnificent content....

The woman Marie touched his shoulder.  “The fellow’s dead, m’sieur.  We had better go.”

Grimshaw followed her into the street.  He noticed that there were no stars.  A bitter wind, forerunner of the implacable mistral, had come up.  The door of the cafe slammed behind them, muffling a sudden uproar of voices that had burst out with his going....

Grimshaw had a room somewhere in the Old Town; he went there, followed by the woman.  He thought:  “I am mad!  Mad!” He was frightened, not by what had happened to him, but because he could not understand.  Nor can I make it clear to you, since no explanation is final when we are dealing with the inexplicable....

When they reached his room, Marie lighted the kerosene lamp and, smoothing down her black hair with both hands, said simply:  “I stay with you.”

“You must not,” Grimshaw answered.

“I love you,” she said.  “You are a great man. C’est ca.  That is that!  Besides, I must love someone—­I mean, do for someone.  You think that I like pleasure.  Ah!  Perhaps.  I am young.  But my heart follows you.  I stay here.”