’"It is always the unexpected that happens,” I said in a propitiatory tone.  My obtuseness provoked him into a contemptuous “Pshaw!” I suppose he meant that the unexpected couldn’t touch him; nothing less than the unconceivable itself could get over his perfect state of preparation.  He had been taken unawares—­and he whispered to himself a malediction upon the waters and the firmament, upon the ship, upon the men.  Everything had betrayed him!  He had been tricked into that sort of high-minded resignation which prevented him lifting as much as his little finger, while these others who had a very clear perception of the actual necessity were tumbling against each other and sweating desperately over that boat business.  Something had gone wrong there at the last moment.  It appears that in their flurry they had contrived in some mysterious way to get the sliding bolt of the foremost boat-chock jammed tight, and forthwith had gone out of the remnants of their minds over the deadly nature of that accident.  It must have been a pretty sight, the fierce industry of these beggars toiling on a motionless ship that floated quietly in the silence of a world asleep, fighting against time for the freeing of that boat, grovelling on all-fours, standing up in despair, tugging, pushing, snarling at each other venomously, ready to kill, ready to weep, and only kept from flying at each other’s throats by the fear of death that stood silent behind them like an inflexible and cold-eyed taskmaster.  Oh yes!  It must have been a pretty sight.  He saw it all, he could talk about it with scorn and bitterness; he had a minute knowledge of it by means of some sixth sense, I conclude, because he swore to me he had remained apart without a glance at them and at the boat—­without one single glance.  And I believe him.  I should think he was too busy watching the threatening slant of the ship, the suspended menace discovered in the midst of the most perfect security—­fascinated by the sword hanging by a hair over his imaginative head.

’Nothing in the world moved before his eyes, and he could depict to himself without hindrance the sudden swing upwards of the dark sky-line, the sudden tilt up of the vast plain of the sea, the swift still rise, the brutal fling, the grasp of the abyss, the struggle without hope, the starlight closing over his head for ever like the vault of a tomb—­the revolt of his young life—­the black end.  He could!  By Jove! who couldn’t?  And you must remember he was a finished artist in that peculiar way, he was a gifted poor devil with the faculty of swift and forestalling vision.  The sights it showed him had turned him into cold stone from the soles of his feet to the nape of his neck; but there was a hot dance of thoughts in his head, a dance of lame, blind, mute thoughts—­a whirl of awful cripples.  Didn’t I tell you he confessed himself before me as though I had the power to bind and to loose?  He burrowed deep, deep, in the hope of my absolution, which would have been of no good to him.  This was one of those cases which no solemn deception can palliate, where no man can help; where his very Maker seems to abandon a sinner to his own devices.