The P. & O. liner gliding through the fiery molten bronze seems as if it were “a painted ship on a painted sea”; its motion barely perceptible, like that of a phantom ship, the wake in its path but a feeble streak in the dull coloring, and the funnels reluctantly and faintly releasing a timid cone of hazy smudge.
Dimly outlined against the Northeast the slowly receding line of grayish ochre marks the mute sentinels of Arabia; to the West a heavy bank of sienna-edged clouds veils the shore of Dana Kill and the African hill desert.
On the aft deck are grouped in nondescript neglect a few men in the uniforms of British East India troops. A stolid, swarthy Sikh and some lean Bengals with their patient, gentle eyes, clad in filthy though picturesque garments, huddle in the shade of dirty awnings. Forward, the solitary figure of the watch drowsily moves with halting nerveless steps in the narrow confines of his little realm. All is pervaded by quiet and repose, a sort of fatalistic waiting for the cooler evening.
A man reclining in a steamer chair on the hurricane deck is the one human being on the upper structure of the vessel. He is a slender sunburnt man past middle age with commanding features and a close-cropped beard flecked with gray. He is well groomed in immaculate white flannels. The half-hidden gray fathomless eyes, created to observe and to remain discreet, the fine mouth closely compressed, the long slender hands idly crossed on his knees, he sits seemingly as if in a dream.
He strikes a close observer as one who could not easily be overlooked in any gathering. His face would remain in the memory—a face of one born to direct the thought and work of others, to lead and command. It shows the marks of the inroads of time and care, the severe pallor of weariness beneath the tan of exposure. His posture betrays the soldier beaten in life’s battle.
A nearby cabin door is opened and a pleasant-faced young man in the uniform of a ship’s officer steps toward the dreamer.
“How do you feel on this hot afternoon, Your Excellency?”
The dreamer turns with a smile and replies, “Very well indeed, but a little lazy. Won’t you sit down a minute, doctor?”
“Thank you, Excellency.” Dr. Brown, the ship’s surgeon, with a little nervous motion and a quiet apology, draws a camp-stool near and seats himself facing the older man.
“I have completed the examination and analysis which my limited equipment permits, Count. I have read up the case and I should like to make my report. You know that my practice of late years has been restricted to the traveling public, but I feel I am competent to diagnose fairly accurately.”