At their feet the shallow water slept profoundly, the ghostly gleam of the sands baffled the eye by its lack of form. Far off, the growth of bushes in the centre raised a massive black bulk against the stars to the southward. Mrs. Travers lingered for a moment near the boat as if afraid of the strange solitude of this lonely sandbank and of this lone sea that seemed to fill the whole encircling universe of remote stars and limitless shadows. “There is nobody here,” she whispered to herself.
“He is somewhere about waiting for you, or I don't know the man,” affirmed d'Alcacer in an undertone. He gave a vigorous shove which sent the little boat into the water.
D'Alcacer was perfectly right. Lingard had come up on deck long before Mrs. Travers woke up with her face wet with tears. The burial party had returned hours before and the crew of the brig were plunged in sleep, except for two watchmen, who at Lingard's appearance retreated noiselessly from the poop. Lingard, leaning on the rail, fell into a sombre reverie of his past. Reproachful spectres crowded the air, animated and vocal, not in the articulate language of mortals but assailing him with faint sobs, deep sighs, and fateful gestures. When he came to himself and turned about they vanished, all but one dark shape without sound or movement. Lingard looked at it with secret horror.
“Who's that?” he asked in a troubled voice.
The shadow moved closer: “It's only me, sir,” said Carter, who had left orders to be called directly the Captain was seen on deck.
“Oh, yes, I might have known,” mumbled Lingard in some confusion. He requested Carter to have a boat manned and when after a time the young man told him that it was ready, he said “All right!” and remained leaning on his elbow.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Carter after a longish silence, “but are you going some distance?”
“No, I only want to be put ashore on the sandbank.”
Carter was relieved to hear this, but also surprised. “There is nothing living there, sir,” he said.
“I wonder,” muttered Lingard.