The preacher’s eyes followed his finger.
“That is Spika—Spika of the Virgin,” he said.
12
The engine had stopped. She neared in the deep dusk, a harp of lights, and with the steady sound [Pg 181]of a waterfall.... She was just moving. There was a hail from the heights.
“Hai!” answered Bellair. It was a poor, broken sound.
Now they felt the strange, different heat of the steamer—earth-heat—and a thousand odours registered on their clean senses—milk and meat, coal-smoke, and the steam of hot ashes, perfumes, metal and paint.... A hoarse voice called down:
“Are any of you sick—infectious?”
“No—just hunger and thirst—clean as a new berth.”
It was Bellair again.
“Stay off well. We’re putting down a ladder. Watch the green light.”