During the afternoon he paced the poop with measured steps, with a pair of binoculars in his hand. At last he laid the glasses down, glanced at the compass-card and walked to the cabin skylight which was open.
“Just lost her, sir,” he said. All was still down there. He raised his voice a little:
“You told me to let you know directly I lost sight of the yacht.”
The sound of a stifled groan reached the attentive Carter and a weary voice said, “All right, I am coming.”
When Lingard stepped out on the poop of the Lightning the open water had turned purple already in the evening light, while to the east the Shallows made a steely glitter all along the sombre line of the shore. Lingard, with folded arms, looked over the sea. Carter approached him and spoke quietly.
“The tide has turned and the night is coming on. Hadn't we better get away from these Shoals, sir?”
Lingard did not stir.
“Yes, the night is coming on. You may fill the main topsail, Mr. Carter,” he said and he relapsed into silence with his eyes fixed in the southern board where the shadows were creeping stealthily toward the setting sun. Presently Carter stood at his elbow again.
“The brig is beginning to forge ahead, sir,” he said in a warning tone.
Lingard came out of his absorption with a deep tremor of his powerful frame like the shudder of an uprooted tree.