Lingard the revolting completeness of his humiliation. Turned out of his
house--and by his wife; that woman who hardly dared to breathe in his
presence, yesterday. He remained perplexed and silent. No. He lacked the
courage to tell the ignoble story.

As the boat of the brig appeared suddenly on the black water close to
the jetty, Lingard broke the painful silence.

"I always thought," he said, sadly, "I always thought you were somewhat
heartless, Willems, and apt to cast adrift those that thought most of
you. I appeal to what is best in you; do not abandon that woman."

"I have not abandoned her," answered Willems, quickly, with conscious
truthfulness. "Why should I? As you so justly observed, she has been a
good wife to me. A very good, quiet, obedient, loving wife, and I love
her as much as she loves me. Every bit. But as to going back now, to
that place where I . . . To walk again amongst those men who yesterday
were ready to crawl before me, and then feel on my back the sting of
their pitying or satisfied smiles--no! I can't. I would rather hide from
them at the bottom of the sea," he went on, with resolute energy. "I
don't think, Captain Lingard," he added, more quietly, "I don't think
that you realize what my position was there."

In a wide sweep of his hand he took in the sleeping shore from north to
south, as if wishing it a proud and threatening good-bye. For a short
moment he forgot his downfall in the recollection of his brilliant
triumphs. Amongst the men of his class and occupation who slept in those
dark houses he had been indeed the first.

"It is hard," muttered Lingard, pensively. "But whose the fault? Whose