And before Kneebone could draw his sword, he felled him to the ground with the iron bar. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. “It’s either now or never,” said Ann Veronica, again ascending this stile. You have darkened your eyebrows, you have even changed your style of dress. 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. Ruth had lived in a world without caresses. In this spy theory, however, he had no faith whatsoever.
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