“I don’t think I shall. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. He has hanged twelve of his associates already. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. Sir Cecil, who with Rowland and some others had entered the room rushed to the window with a torch. It was really very nice of you, but to-morrow you will laugh at it as I do now. "I don't think that's likely. She must weigh her situation. ” “And I also,” Brendon echoed.
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