Julie sat restively on the blistering deck of a small vessel in the harbor of Solano. The Black Pearl, which had brought her from Manila, had deposited her in this blazing city—which now lay before her like a peeling off the sun—and had sailed on in the trail of the East Indies. She had been forced to wait an incredible time for the rare chance that would send a boat from Solano to her own world-forgotten island. Even now she would not have been on her way, if a government official had not appeared from Manila and, from Solano, demanded transportation forthwith to Nahal.
It was getting late—late for a day when everybody rises at dawn, when at last there walked across the gang-plank a young man in a Norfolk khaki suit and a white helmet. He was followed by a procession of natives carrying his luggage, which they had so lightly distributed among themselves that it took some time for the column to transfer itself from land to sea. It took more time, and a knowledge of the coin of the land—which knowledge the young man seemed to have—to compensate these individuals, who raised a protest over the glittering new centavos. The young man was obliged to add to his payment, whereupon the recipients protested more loudly than ever, and would not subside. The captain in disgust contemptuously ordered the gang-plank lifted with them still on it. Life in the East was too prolific anyway.
The young man, who had such a dark skin that Julie concluded that he must be a Spaniard, came forward with his luggage, which he now conveyed himself, replacing a dozen natives.
When he perceived Julie, he seemed much taken aback, and removed his helmet, revealing a young assured face, a trifle heavy, and a pair of very light blue eyes. Julie looked at him attentively.
He paused, holding his helmet in his hand. It was dear that he wanted to speak. He had the same curious, almost incredulous expression of those armies of men in Manila.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, overcome by his desire to address her; “I had no idea I was keeping any one waiting. I understood that I was the only passenger for Nahal.” All the time he was speaking his eyes never swerved from her.
“It does not matter,” Julie replied, “except for the heat.”
The young man sat down not very far away from her, on a chair which he had brought.
Julie leaned over the railing and watched the recession of Solano. Somewhere far off in the sea was her own terrible little island about which she wondered deeply; she remembered now acutely that she need not have gone to that Robinson Crusoe fastness. Father Hull had warned her, and so had every one else. Suddenly an image rose before her, a great youthful frame with a rumpled head. For a moment she seemed to be facing its high and inflexible resolve.
“We are surely bound for No Man’s Land!” The young man at her side was addressing her.