Bellair turned aside for an instant. Money and papers of more money--these were very far from fanning excitement in his breast. A loaf and a jug of fresh water were real; the moon’s higher appearance each night, and the majestic plan of the night-suns, these were real. Fleury, the woman and the babe, lost in the brimming darkness of earth’s ocean--they were real. Like the stars they had to do with the mighty Conceiver of it all. They were a part of the Conception--and so they were real--but the dollars of men.... “And do you know what I will do--after I have tossed this into the sea?” The question brought him back quickly. “No, Stackhouse,” he answered. “I will come for you and dake that bottle. I am big. I have strength. I will dake it--or you will kill me--and that will be the end----” Bellair thought of that. There was a pistol in his coat. He did not want to use it. He believed Stackhouse would do as he said. “For God’s sake, Bellair----” “If I give it to you--oh, not for that rubbish!” he pointed to the wallet. “If I give it to you--you will die more quickly----” “That is what I want.” “But it is not our way----” Stackhouse tore loose from his shirtpocket the heavy gold watch and its heavier chain, dropped the whole into one of the folds of the wallet to weight it down. “It will sink,” he said. “To hell with it----” “For God’s sake, Bellair!” Stackhouse moaned, his arm rising with the wallet and falling again. At that instant Bellair thought of Bessie Brealt and her career.... He turned to Fleury and the Mother. They were regarding him with kindest concern--as if he were a loved one who could not fail to do well in any event. Then he thought of the work that Fleury might do--the preacher who had finished with talk, and was so eager to act.... And just then, the little child turned to him from the mother’s breast--a puzzled look, but calm, and a flicker of the damp upper lip, as if it would like to smile, but was not sure. Bellair held out the whiskey. The wallet was thrust in his hands for reception of the bottle--a frenzied transaction. They begged him to spare it for his own peace. They gave him water, but poor Stackhouse could not live with the stuff in his hands. In fifteen minutes the bottle was drained, and then the monster wept. 5 The night roved on like a night in still mountains. The young moon had sunk behind the sea. Jupiter in meridian glory seemed trying to bring his white fire to the dying red of Antares.... A dark night of stars now, since the upstart moon had left the deeper purple. Most of all, Bellair was fascinated by the great yellow gleam of Canopus. It was a dry, pure dark--no drip in that night--but a thirsty horror in the saline lapping of the ocean against the planks.