“Yes, the world is dead,” she said. “Look your fill then. It won't be for long.”
He let her go as suddenly as though she had struck him. The cold white light of the tropical dawn had crept past the zenith now and the expanse of the shallow waters looked cold, too, without stir or ripple within the enormous rim of the horizon where, to the west, a shadow lingered still.
“Take my arm,” he said.
She did so at once, and turning their backs on the two ships they began to walk along the sands, but they had not made many steps when Mrs. Travers perceived an oblong mound with a board planted upright at one end. Mrs. Travers knew that part of the sands. It was here she used to walk with her husband and d'Alcacer every evening after dinner, while the yacht lay stranded and her boats were away in search of assistance—which they had found—which they had found! This was something that she had never seen there before. Lingard had suddenly stopped and looked at it moodily. She pressed his arm to rouse him and asked, “What is this?”
“This is a grave,” said Lingard in a low voice, and still gazing at the heap of sand. “I had him taken out of the ship last night. Strange,” he went on in a musing tone, “how much a grave big enough for one man only can hold. His message was to forget everything.”
“Never, never,” murmured Mrs. Travers. “I wish I had been on board the Emma. . . . You had a madman there,” she cried out, suddenly. They moved on again, Lingard looking at Mrs. Travers who was leaning on his arm.
“I wonder which of us two was mad,” he said.
“I wonder you can bear to look at me,” she murmured. Then Lingard spoke again.
“I had to see you once more.”
“That abominable Jorgenson,” she whispered to herself.