I recalled the
expression of his face as I had seen it once or twice, notably on that
occasion of the evening prayer, and an involuntary shudder ran down my
spine. At that very instant he turned and saw us where we lay, and his face
broke into a smile, so that his teeth showed white in the sun. He
looked in his element, and exceedingly attractive. He called out
something about his fish, and soon after passed out of sight into the
lagoon. For a time none of us said a word. “And the cure?” ventured Maloney at length. “Is not to quench this savage force,” replied Dr. Silence, “but to
steer it better, and to provide other outlets. This is the solution
of all these problems of accumulated force, for this force is the raw
material of usefulness, and should be increased and cherished, not
by separating it from the body by death, but by raising it to higher
channels. The best and quickest cure of all,” he went on, speaking very
gently and with a hand upon the clergyman’s arm, “is to lead it towards
its object, provided that object is not unalterably hostile--to let it
find rest where----”

He stopped abruptly, and the eyes of the two men met in a single glance
of comprehension. “Joan?” Maloney exclaimed, under his breath. “Joan!” replied John Silence. *       *       *       *       *

We all went to bed early. The day had been unusually warm, and after
sunset a curious hush descended on the island. Nothing was audible but
that faint, ghostly singing which is inseparable from a pine-wood even
on the stillest day--a low, searching sound, as though the wind had
hair and trailed it o’er the world. With the sudden cooling of the atmosphere a sea fog began to form. It
appeared in isolated patches over the water, and then these patches
slid together and a white wall advanced upon us. Not a breath of air
stirred; the firs stood like flat metal outlines; the sea became as
oil. The whole scene lay as though held motionless by some huge weight
in the air; and the flames from our fire--the largest we had ever
made--rose upwards, straight as a church steeple. As I followed the rest of our party tent-wards, having kicked the
embers of the fire into safety, the advance guard of the fog was
creeping slowly among the trees, like white arms feeling their way. Mingled with the smoke was the odour of moss and soil and bark, and
the peculiar flavour of the Baltic, half salt, half brackish, like the
smell of an estuary at low water. It is difficult to say why it seemed to me that this deep stillness
masked an intense activity; perhaps in every mood lies the suggestion
of its opposite, so that I became aware of the contrast of furious
energy, for it was like moving through the deep pause before a
thunderstorm, and I trod gently lest by breaking a twig or moving
a stone I might set the whole scene into some sort of tumultuous
movement. Actually, no doubt, it was nothing more than a result of
overstrung nerves. There was no more question of undressing and going to bed than there
was of undressing and going to bathe. Some sense in me was alert and
expectant. I sat in my tent and waited. And at the end of half an hour
or so my waiting was justified, for the canvas suddenly shivered,
and some one tripped over the ropes that held it to the earth. John
Silence came in. The effect of his quiet entry was singular and prophetic: it was just
as though the energy lying behind all this stillness had pressed
forward to the edge of action. This, no doubt, was merely the
quickening of my own mind, and had no other justification; for the
presence of John Silence always suggested the near possibility of
vigorous action, and, as a matter of fact, he came in with nothing more
than a nod and a significant gesture. He sat down on a corner of my ground-sheet, and I pushed the blanket
over so that he could cover his legs. He drew the flap of the tent
after him and settled down, but hardly had he done so when the canvas
shook a second time, and in blundered Maloney. “Sitting in the dark?” he said self-consciously, pushing his head
inside, and hanging up his lantern on the ridge-pole nail. “I just
looked in for a smoke. I suppose----”

He glanced round, caught the eye of Dr. Silence, and stopped. He
put his pipe back into his pocket and began to hum softly--that
under-breath humming of a nondescript melody I knew so well and had
come to hate. Dr. Silence leaned forward, opened the lantern and blew the light out. “Speak low,” he said, “and don’t strike matches. Listen for sounds
and movements about the Camp, and be ready to follow me at a moment’s
notice.” There was light enough to distinguish our faces easily, and I
saw Maloney glance again hurriedly at both of us. “Is the Camp asleep?” the doctor asked presently, whispering. “Sangree is,” replied the clergyman, in a voice equally low. “I can’t
answer for the women; I think they’re sitting up.”

“That’s for the best.” And then he added: “I wish the fog would thin a
bit and let the moon through; later--we may want it.”

“It is lifting now, I think,” Maloney whispered back. “It’s over the
tops of the trees already.”

I cannot say what it was in this commonplace exchange of remarks
that thrilled. Probably Maloney’s swift acquiescence in the doctor’s
mood had something to do with it; for his quick obedience certainly
impressed me a good deal. But, even without that slight evidence,
it was clear that each recognised the gravity of the occasion, and
understood that sleep was impossible and sentry duty was the order of
the night. “Report to me,” repeated John Silence once again, “the least sound, and
do nothing precipitately.”

He shifted across to the mouth of the tent and raised the flap,
fastening it against the pole so that he could see out. Maloney stopped
humming and began to force the breath through his teeth with a kind
of faint hissing, treating us to a medley of church hymns and popular
songs of the day. Then the tent trembled as though some one had touched it. “That’s the wind rising,” whispered the clergyman, and pulled the flap
open as far as it would go. A waft of cold damp air entered and made us
shiver, and with it came a sound of the sea as the first wave washed
its way softly along the shores. “It’s got round to the north,” he added, and following his voice came
a long-drawn whisper that rose from the whole island as the trees sent
forth a sighing response. “The fog’ll move a bit now. I can make out a
lane across the sea already.”

“Hush!” said Dr. Silence, for Maloney’s voice had risen above a
whisper, and we settled down again to another long period of watching
and waiting, broken only by the occasional rubbing of shoulders against
the canvas as we shifted our positions, and the increasing noise of
waves on the outer coast-line of the island. And over all whirred the
murmur of wind sweeping the tops of the trees like a great harp, and
the faint tapping on the tent as drops fell from the branches with a
sharp pinging sound.