The faces of the chiefs fell; without a word they stepped back into the council chamber where lay the drafted treaty, cut each a small wrist-vein and signed it in his blood. ‘Our tribe will kill us for this,’ said one chief as he affixed his mark. And two months later he was dead. And Mr. Trimblerigg, having successfully won his point, by a judicious mixture of incompatible principles, was quite pleased with himself--and me. For while he took over most of the credit, he did not forget his stars for having made him the man he was. Grateful as well as gratified, and very tired after all his efforts, he fell asleep without having risen from his knees. And as in that attitude he slept the sleep of the just, with just a suspicion of the crocean dawn once more illuminating the pillow on which at sideway turn his head so confidingly rested, I felt once again that curious sense of helplessness which his achievement of a good conscience always imposed on me; and the old doubt recurred--difficult to put into words, but virtually to this effect: was the relation between us a reality or only a dream; did he belong to me, or did I belong to him? Was I using him, or was he using me? Ought I to consider myself anything more than a rather shining reflector of his brain? All through the world’s history there have been men doubtful of their makers, honestly incredulous of the source from which they sprung--infidels, sceptics, atheists--of lives too short to mark the changes, vicissitudes and final disappearance of the creeds they would not hold. Many such have I known with sympathy and with understanding; but Mr. Trimblerigg, so far as my experience goes, is the unique instance of that process reversed--one who has raised a like doubt in the mind of his creator. Was he really mine, or did I only dream of him as fantastically as he so often dreamed of me? Now he has gone from me, and I do not know: perhaps I never shall. But if in that other region to which he has now passed he has at last found not me but himself--and in that image has satisfied the requirements of his soul--can it be called a lost one--so far as he is concerned? His work accomplished, he returned home. Incidentally the ship which bore him and his fortunes back to the old world encountered storm almost the whole way. But Mr. Trimblerigg’s conscience was at peace, and he was not afraid. For myself I own that I was anxious; I never quite know how storms are going to end; and I did not wish, at this juncture, to lose Mr. Trimblerigg merely by accident. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE _Second Wind_