Hassim, lounging with his back against the closed door, kept his eye on him watchfully and Immada’s dark and sorrowful eyes rested on the face of the white woman.  Mrs. Travers felt as though she were engaged in a contest with them; in a struggle for the possession of that man’s strength and of that man’s devotion.  When she looked up at Lingard she saw on his face—­which should have been impassive or exalted, the face of a stern leader or the face of a pitiless dreamer—­an expression of utter forgetfulness.  He seemed to be tasting the delight of some profound and amazing sensation.  And suddenly in the midst of her appeal to his generosity, in the middle of a phrase, Mrs. Travers faltered, becoming aware that she was the object of his contemplation.

“Do not!  Do not look at that woman!” cried Immada.  “O!  Master—­look away. . . .”  Hassim threw one arm round the girl’s neck.  Her voice sank.  “O!  Master—­look at us.”  Hassim, drawing her to himself, covered her lips with his hand.  She struggled a little like a snared bird and submitted, hiding her face on his shoulder, very quiet, sobbing without noise.

“What do they say to you?” asked Mrs. Travers with a faint and pained smile.  “What can they say?  It is intolerable to think that their words which have no meaning for me may go straight to your heart. . . .”

“Look away,” whispered Lingard without making the slightest movement.

Mrs. Travers sighed.

“Yes, it is very hard to think that I who want to touch you cannot make myself understood as well as they.  And yet I speak the language of your childhood, the language of the man for whom there is no hope but in your generosity.”

He shook his head.  She gazed at him anxiously for a moment.  “In your memories then,” she said and was surprised by the expression of profound sadness that over-spread his attentive face.

“Do you know what I remember?” he said.  “Do you want to know?” She listened with slightly parted lips.  “I will tell you.  Poverty, hard work—­and death,” he went on, very quietly.  “And now I’ve told you, and you don’t know.  That’s how it is between us.  You talk to me—­I talk to you—­and we don’t know.”

Her eyelids dropped.

“What can I find to say?” she went on.  “What can I do?  I mustn’t give in.  Think!  Amongst your memories there must be some face—­some voice—­some name, if nothing more.  I can not believe that there is nothing but bitterness.”

“There’s no bitterness,” he murmured.

“O!  Brother, my heart is faint with fear,” whispered Immada.  Lingard turned swiftly to that whisper.

“Then, they are to be saved,” exclaimed Mrs. Travers.  “Ah, I knew. . . .”

“Bear thy fear in patience,” said Hassim, rapidly, to his sister.

“They are to be saved.  You have said it,” Lingard pronounced aloud, suddenly.  He felt like a swimmer who, in the midst of superhuman efforts to reach the shore, perceives that the undertow is taking him to sea.  He would go with the mysterious current; he would go swiftly—­and see the end, the fulfilment both blissful and terrible.