"But the tears still run down her face and she says nothing. I go off and get busy because I can't stand the sight of It. I 'm not feeling any too like a comedy, myself. "'We 're sitting that night at a fire on the beach, and the thin new moon is up. A light breeze is in shore. Suddenly she turns to me. "'You 're religious, McCarthy,' she says to me. "'I 'm not exactly religious,' I say. 'I 'm like every one, I guess.' "'You believe in God, McCarthy?' "Nobody likes to talk much about things of that kind. You think about them, but you don't say them. And particularly you don't talk about them to a prisoner who 's up for murder, unless you 're one of those Holy Willie boys. "'Who does n't?' I spars. "'You believe--' her voice is serious--'that God takes care of you on this island?' "That's what they say.' "'Do you believe, McCarthy, that He knows me, takes care of me, cares for me?' "I say nothing--because I can't see it. She 's too far out of the pale. I 'd like to tell her 'yes.' But I can't. "'You don't believe, then, McCarthy--' her voice is just a husky whisper--'that there is any caring for me, anywhere.' "'Oh, what's the use of bothering about that?' "'You don't, then,' she said. 'You think I 'm too bad for--even--that.' "I get up and shake myself. 'Maybe there's nothing to it, after all,' I tell her. But all of a sudden she is crying, her face down to the sand, as though her heart would break. "I move away, because I 'm no good to her, and go down the strand a bit. The water laps the strand, and whispers in the trees, but I can hear Janssen crying still. "I walk on and on. I hear the sea rumble on the rocks, and the whisper of the trees is louder. A turtle pluds into the water, and a cocoanut falls with a thud, but over it all I still can hear the voice of Janssen crying, little tearing cries, as though pieces of silk were being ripped from the main fabric with shrill protesting tragedy. It struck me that she herself was flaying her heart with brutal knout-like strokes, and that every red shred was moaning in protest: 'Don't, don't, don't!'... "The new moon became the full moon, and waned and died," McCarthy went on. "But no help came. "There was nothing to do but wait, and a policeman does n't mind waiting. All his life is waiting, except for a hint of action now and then. But I worried about Janssen. "Janssen gave me no trouble. We talked just as friendly strangers might talk, waiting on a railroad platform. She got the bananas and the cocoanuts and the breadfruit, gathering them as they fell. I managed to kill a suckling pig now and then, and I rigged up a fishing-line from a piece of rope I unraveled that had come ashore from the wreck of the boat, and a pin Janssen gave me.