The instant the volunteer went back to the waiting group, Hildegarde drew close to the solitary figure at the railing. “Louis!”
Whether at something new in the girl’s low voice, or at a simultaneous shrill dissonance in the thick, chill air, Cheviot started and looked round. “Oh, it’s those Chinamen!” he said, his eyes on the blue-cotton crew hauling at a rope with a kind of wicked hilarity as they sang their barbaric, disquieting chant.
But it was a new experience to find that anything could get on Louis’s nerves!
“Is it true you’ve been up all night?” Hildegarde said hurriedly, scanning his face. He nodded, and turned seaward again to watch the little boat planting out bright-colored buoys in the mist.
“Louis, the captain says I may speak to you. Only five minutes, so we mustn’t waste time pretending. It’s dangerous what you mean to do. Oh, don’t be afraid! I’m not going to try to prevent your going. Only, if you don’t come back, Louis”—her voice fell—“I shan’t know how to go on living.”
For a moment he made no answer, and then, with his eyes still on the dim boat dancing in the mist: “You’re only rather frightened,” he said. “Wait till all this has gone by.”
“Ah, can’t you see? Why is it so hard for you to believe?”
“Because,” he said very low, “I know if I did, it would be the signal for the old barrier to rise up again.”
“What barrier? You aren’t thinking—”
“I’m thinking this isn’t the place for you to—” He checked himself.