“I understand,” she said, steadily, “we are helpless.”
“And alone,” he added.
After a pause she said in a deliberate, restrained voice:
“What does this mean? Plunder, captivity?”
“It would have meant death if I hadn't been here,” he answered.
“But you have the power to—”
“Why, do you think, you are alive yet?” he cried. “Jorgenson has been arguing with them on shore,” he went on, more calmly, with a swing of his arm toward where the night seemed darkest. “Do you think he would have kept them back if they hadn't expected me every day? His words would have been nothing without my fist.”
She heard a dull blow struck on the side of the yacht and concealed in the same darkness that wrapped the unconcern of the earth and sea, the fury and the pain of hearts; she smiled above his head, fascinated by the simplicity of images and expressions.
Lingard made a brusque movement, the lively little boat being unsteady under his feet, and she spoke slowly, absently, as if her thought had been lost in the vagueness of her sensations.
“And this—this—Jorgenson, you said? Who is he?”