Heyst, gazing fixedly to the southward, exclaimed:
"Sail ho!"
A moment of silence ensued.
"It must be very far away," he went on. "I don't think you could see it.
Some native craft making for the Moluccas, probably. Come, we mustn't
stay here."
With his arm round her waist, he led her down a little distance, and
they settled themselves in the shade; she, seated on the ground, he a
little lower, reclining at her feet.
"You don't like to look at the sea from up there?" he said after a time.
She shook her head. That empty space was to her the abomination of
desolation. But she only said again:
"It makes my head swim."
"Too big?" he inquired.
"Too lonely. It makes my heart sink, too," she added in a low voice, as
if confessing a secret.
"I'm am afraid," said Heyst, "that you would be justified in reproaching
me for these sensations. But what would you have?"
His tone was playful, but his eyes, directed at her face, were serious.
She protested.
"I am not feeling lonely with you--not a bit. It is only when we come up
to that place, and I look at all that water and all that light--"
"We will never come here again, then," he interrupted her.
She remained silent for a while, returning his gaze till he removed it.
"It seems as if everything that there is had gone under," she said.
"Reminds you of the story of the deluge," muttered the man, stretched at
her feet and looking at them.
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