parts of the world, in China Seas and round the Cape? Was he not even
then on his return journey from Zanzibar? No doubt. But the big liner
which deposited him yesterday at the thronged port was a different
concern from this wretched tub, reeking with indescribable odours as it
rolled in the oily swell of the past storm through which the MOZAMBIQUE
had ridden without a tremor. The benches, too, were frightfully
uncomfortable, and sticky with sirocco moisture under the breathless
awning. Above all, there was the unavoidable spectacle of the suffering
passengers, natives of the country; it infected him with misery. In
attitudes worthy of Michelangelo they sprawled about the deck, groaning
with anguish; huddled up in corners with a lemon-prophylactic against
sea-sickness, apparently-pressed to faces which, by some subtle process
of colour-adaptation, had acquired the complexion of the fruit;
tottering to the taffrail. . . .

There was a peasant woman dressed in black, holding an infant to her
breast. Both child and parent suffered to a distressing degree. By some
kindly dispensation of Providence they contrived to be ill in turns,
and the situation might have verged on the comical but for the fact
that blank despair was written on the face of the mother. She evidently
thought her last day had come, and still, in the convulsions of her
pain, tried to soothe the child. An ungainly creature, with a big scar
across one cheek. She suffered dumbly, like some poor animal. The
bishop's heart went out to her.

He took out his watch. Two more hours of discomfort to be gone through!
Then he looked over the water. The goal was far distant.

Viewed from the clammy deck on this bright morning, the island of
Nepenthe resembled a cloud. It was a silvery speck upon that limitless