“He is going back to his chebec,” said Trimalcyon.
Without replying, Pog went out of the chamber and walked to the prow.
It was late. The wind had grown somewhat calm; the galley-slaves were sleeping on their benches.
Nothing was heard but the regular step of the spahis who walked their rounds on the vessel.
Pog, leaning over the guards, looked at the sea in silence.
Trimalcyon, in spite of his depravity, had been moved by this scene. Never had the cruel monomania of Pog shown itself in such a horrible light. He felt a certain embarrassment in engaging in conversation with his silent friend. At last, approaching him with several “Hem—Hems,” and numerous hesitations, he said: “The weather is very fine this evening, Captain Pog.”
“Your remark is full of sense, Trimalcyon.”
“Come to the point now, and shame to the devil! I do not know what to say to you, Pog, but you are a terrible man; you will make that poor starling insane. How in the devil can you find pleasure in tormenting the young fellow so? Some fine day he will leave you.”
“If you were not a man incapable of understanding me, Trimalcyon, I would tell you that what I feel for this unfortunate youth is strange,” said Pog. “Yes, it is strange,” continued he, talking to himself. “Sometimes I feel furious anger rising in me against Erebus, a resentment as implacable as if he were my most deadly enemy. Again I have the indifference of a piece of ice. Other times I feel for him a compassion, I would say affection if that sentiment could enter my soul. Then, the sound of his voice—yes, especially the sound of his voice—and his look awaken in me memories of a time which is no more.”
As he uttered these last words, Pog spoke indistinctly. Trimalcyon was touched by the accent of his usually morose companion. The voice of Pog, ordinarily hard and sarcastic, softened almost to a lamentation.