“Yes, you do,” she insisted softly; then after a short pause she added, “and you will never forget me.”
Almayer shivered slightly. She could not have said a more cruel thing.
“Here is the boat coming now,” said Dain, his arm outstretched towards a black speck on the water between the coast and the islet.
They all looked at it and remained standing in silence till the little canoe came gently on the beach and a man landed and walked towards them. He stopped some distance off and hesitated.
“What news?” asked Dain.
“We have had orders secretly and in the night to take off from this islet a man and a woman. I see the woman. Which of you is the man?”
“Come, delight of my eyes,” said Dain to Nina. “Now we go, and your voice shall be for my ears only. You have spoken your last words to the Tuan Putih, your father. Come.”
She hesitated for a while, looking at Almayer, who kept his eyes steadily on the sea, then she touched his forehead in a lingering kiss, and a tear—one of her tears—fell on his cheek and ran down his immovable face.
“Goodbye,” she whispered, and remained irresolute till he pushed her suddenly into Dain’s arms.
“If you have any pity for me,” murmured Almayer, as if repeating some sentence learned by heart, “take that woman away.”