a hundred or more at our mercy, there was no one. The chief, Hassim, was
gone, and the lady who was a princess in the country--and nobody knows
what became of them from that day to this. Sometimes traders from our
parts talk of having heard of them here, and heard of them there, but
these are the lies of men who go afar for gain. We who live in the
country believe that the ship sailed back into the clouds whence the
Lady's magic made her come. Did we not see the ship with our own eyes?
And as to Rajah Hassim and his sister, Mas Immada, some men say one
thing and some another, but God alone knows the truth."

Such is the traditional account of Lingard's visit to the shores of
Boni. And the truth is he came and went the same night; for, when the
dawn broke on a cloudy sky the brig, under reefed canvas and smothered
in sprays, was storming along to the southward on her way out of the
Gulf. Lingard, watching over the rapid course of his vessel, looked
ahead with anxious eyes and more than once asked himself with wonder,
why, after all, was he thus pressing her under all the sail she could
carry. His hair was blown about by the wind, his mind was full of care
and the indistinct shapes of many new thoughts, and under his feet, the
obedient brig dashed headlong from wave to wave.

Her owner and commander did not know where he was going. That adventurer
had only a confused notion of being on the threshold of a big adventure.
There was something to be done, and he felt he would have to do it. It
was expected of him. The seas expected it; the land expected it. Men
also. The story of war and of suffering; Jaffir's display of fidelity,
the sight of Hassim and his sister, the night, the tempest, the coast
under streams of fire--all this made one inspiring manifestation of a
life calling to him distinctly for interference. But what appealed to
him most was the silent, the complete, unquestioning, and apparently