Hurrying down to the lower deck I found him with the purser. As I
spoke he turned, thrust out to me an eager hand--and then I saw what
was that difference that had so moved me. He knew, of course by my
silence and involuntary shrinking the shock my closer look had given
me. His eyes filled; he turned brusquely from the purser, hesitated
--then hurried off to his stateroom.

"'E looks rather queer--eh?" said the purser. "Know 'im well, sir?
Seems to 'ave given you quite a start."

I made some reply and went slowly up to my chair. There I sat,
composed my mind and tried to define what it was that had shaken me
so. Now it came to me. The old Throckmartin was on the eve of his
venture just turned forty, lithe, erect, muscular; his controlling
expression one of enthusiasm, of intellectual keenness, of--what shall
I say--expectant search. His always questioning brain had stamped its
vigor upon his face.

But the Throckmartin I had seen below was one who had borne some
scaring shock of mingled rapture and horror; some soul cataclysm that
in its climax had remoulded, deep from within, his face, setting on it
seal of wedded ecstasy and despair; as though indeed these two had
come to him hand in hand, taken possession of him and departing left
behind, ineradicably, their linked shadows!

Yes--it was that which appalled. For how could rapture and horror,
Heaven and Hell mix, clasp hands--kiss?

Yet these were what in closest embrace lay on Throckmartin's face!