As soon as they had got out, the vehicle was drawn up at the back of a tree near the cage. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. Next instant, Gerald felt his wrist seized in an iron grip. But one thing troubled him, and because of it he might never arrive on the beach. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired. Her voice recalled him. .
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