He had very peremptorily
discouraged attempts at conversation on the part of his faithful
follower. Ricardo listened to his regular breathing. It was all very
well for the governor. He looked upon it as a sort of sport. A gentleman
naturally would. But this ticklish and important job had to be pulled
off at all costs, both for honour and for safety. Ricardo rose quietly,
and made his way on the veranda. He could not lie still. He wanted to
go out for air, and he had a feeling that by the force of his eagerness
even the darkness and the silence could be made to yield something to
his eyes and ears.
He noted the stars, and stepped back again into the dense darkness.
He resisted the growing impulse to go out and steal towards the other
bungalow. It would have been madness to start prowling in the dark on
unknown ground. And for what end? Unless to relieve the oppression.
Immobility lay on his limbs like a leaden garment. And yet he was
unwilling to give up. He persisted in his objectless vigil. The man of
the island was keeping quiet.
It was at that moment that Ricardo's eyes caught the vanishing red
trail of light made by the cigar--a startling revelation of the man's
wakefulness. He could not suppress a low "Hallo!" and began to sidle
along towards the door, with his shoulders rubbing the wall. For all he
knew, the man might have been out in front by this time, observing the
veranda.
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