|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmehj
 

leased and a penitential tone
come into Lingard's murmuring voice.
"And even now it's nearly too late! The road was plain, but I saw
you on it and my heart failed me. I was there like an empty man
and I dared not face you. You must forgive me. No, I had no right
to doubt you for a moment. I feel as if I ought to go on my knees
and beg your pardon for forgetting what you are, for daring to
forget."
"Why, King Tom, what is it?"
"It seems as if I had sinned," she heard him say. He seized her
by the shoulders, turned her about, moved her forward a step or
two. His hands were heavy, his force irresistible, though he
himself imagined he was handling her gently. "Look straight
before you," he growled into her ear. "Do you see anything?" Mrs.
Travers, passive between the rigid arms, could see nothing but,
far off, the massed, featureless shadows of the shore.
"No, I see nothing," she said.
"You can't be looking the right way," she heard him behind her.
And now she felt her head between Lingard's hands. He moved it
the least bit to the right. "There! See it?"
"No. What am I to look for?"
"A gleam of light," said Lingard, taking away his hands suddenly.
"A gleam that will grow into a blaze before our boat can get half
way across the lagoon."
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On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmang