"I am ashamed of you. I am not."
The captain turned his back on him. Wyndham caught him by his shoulder.
"Are you a man to be moved to pity?"
"Look here, my lad, I can pity to any extent; but if you think any amount of compassion will turn me from my duty, you're in the wrong box. It's my duty, clear as the sky above, to go straight on to Teneriffe, and on I shall go. You understand?"
"Yes," said Gerald, "I understand. Thank you, captain. I won't bother you further."
His voice had altered, his brow had cleared. He walked away to the further end of the deck, whistling a light air. The captain saw him stop to pay some small attention to a lady passenger.
"Bless me, if I understand the fellow!" he muttered.
CHAPTER XXXI.
When a die has been cast—cast irrevocably—as a rule there follows a calm. It is sometimes the calm of peace, sometimes that of despair; but there is always a stillness, effort is over, words don't avail, actions are paralyzed.