He stretched his arm straight out, pointing abeam for a time, then his arm fell slowly.
“Coming this way,” he added with decision.
From forward Shaw called out in a startled tone:
“Something on the water, sir! Broad on this bow!”
“All right!” called back Lingard.
A lump of blacker darkness floated into his view. From it came over the water English words—deliberate, reaching him one by one; as if each had made its own difficult way through the profound stillness of the night.
“What—ship—is—that—pray?”
“English brig,” answered Lingard, after a short moment of hesitation.
“A brig! I thought you were something bigger,” went on the voice from the sea with a tinge of disappointment in its deliberate tone. “I am coming alongside—if—you—please.”
“No! you don't!” called Lingard back, sharply. The leisurely drawl of the invisible speaker seemed to him offensive, and woke up a hostile feeling. “No! you don't if you care for your boat. Where do you spring from? Who are you—anyhow? How many of you are there in that boat?”
After these emphatic questions there was an interval of silence. During that time the shape of the boat became a little more distinct. She must have carried some way on her yet, for she loomed up bigger and nearly abreast of where Lingard stood, before the self-possessed voice was heard again:
“I will show you.”
Then, after another short pause, the voice said, less loud but very plain:
“Strike on the gunwale. Strike hard, John!” and suddenly a blue light blazed out, illuminating with a livid flame a round patch in the night. In the smoke and splutter of that ghastly halo appeared a white, four-oared gig with five men sitting in her in a row. Their heads were turned toward the brig with a strong expression of curiosity
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