a sort of ostentation.

"It's late--and since we are going to sleep on board to-night . .
." she said. "But it does seem so cruel."

The professor started up eagerly, knocking the ashes out of his
pipe. "Infinitely more sensible, my dear Emma."

Renouard waited behind Miss Moorsom's chair.

She got up slowly, moved one step forward, and paused looking at
the shore. The blackness of the island blotted out the stars with
its vague mass like a low thundercloud brooding over the waters and
ready to burst into flame and crashes.

"And so--this is Malata," she repeated dreamily, moving towards the
cabin door. The clear cloak hanging from her shoulders, the ivory
face--for the night had put out nothing of her but the gleams of
her hair--made her resemble a shining dream-woman uttering words of
wistful inquiry. She disappeared without a sign, leaving Renouard
penetrated to the very marrow by the sounds that came from her body
like a mysterious resonance of an exquisite instrument.

He stood stock still. What was this accidental touch which had
evoked the strange accent of her voice? He dared not answer that
question. But he had to answer the question of what was to be done
now. Had the moment of confession come? The thought was enough to
make one's blood run cold.

It was as if those people had a premonition of something. In the