"There's no use trying to explain these things," he said, "but sometimes, McTee, there's a small voice that comes up inside of me and tells me what to do and what not to do. When I first saw the picture of Beatrice--that one where she's just a slip of a child--there was a voice that said: 'Here's the spirit of your dead wife come back to life. You must work for her and cherish her.' So I've done it. And because I started to do it, the voice never left me. It warned me when to put to sea and when to stay in port. It gave me a hint when to buy and when to sell, and the result is that I'm rich--rich--rich. Gold in my hand and gold in my brain, McTee!" The Scotchman began to feel more and more that old age or his monomania had shaken White Henshaw's reason, but he said bitterly: "And I suppose, if that voice never fails you and if these South Seas natives can read the future, that you are bound to burn at sea?" "Damn you!" said Henshaw, terribly moved. "What devil keeps putting that in your brain? Isn't it in mine all the day and all the night? Don't I see hellfire in the dark? Don't I see the same flames, blue and thin, dancing in the light of the sun at midday? Is the thing ever out of my mind? Were you put on this ship to keep dinning the idea into my ears? If there's something more than the life on earth, then there must be a hell--and if there's a hell, then it's real hellfire that I see!" He paused and pointed a gaunt, trembling arm at McTee: "D'you understand? The men I've killed before they died--they send their spirits here to walk beside me. They wait in the dark--and they whisper in my ear!" McTee swallowed hard and commenced to edge toward the door. "Farley is always hanging around--Farley, as I saw him on the beach that last time in his loincloth, with his pig eyes; sometimes he seems to be begging me to take pity on him; sometimes he seems to be laughing at me. And he's always got his hand outstretched. And Collins comes stroking his beard in the way he had, and he keeps his hand stretched out to me. What do they want? Alms! Alms! Alms! They want my soul for alms to take it below and burn it in the hellfire--the thin, blue flames!" He stopped in the midst of his ravings and drew himself erect, a smile of infinite cruelty on his lips. "Let them all come with their damned, empty palms! They're ghosts, and they cannot stop me so long as I follow the small voice that's inside of me. They can't stop me, and I'll win back to Beatrice. There I'm safe--safe! Her hands are thin and light and cool and as fragrant as flowers. She'll lay them on my eyelids and I'll go to sleep! And the ghosts will close their empty hands. Ha! McTee, d'you know aught of the power of a woman's love?" He stepped close to the burly Scotchman. "Keep off," growled McTee. "I want none of you! There's poison in your touch!" He raised his hand like a guard, but two lean, thin hands, incredibly strong, closed on his wrists.