The change in him was decidedly noticeable. His manner was odder, more distrait; throughout the evening he sat with his chair pulled close to the side, speaking only when spoken to, gazing off into the night and drumming constantly on the rail with his hand. We sailed from Batavia in a couple of days. Quite abruptly, on the morning of our departure, Devereux approached me with a new manner, as if anxious to enter into confidences. The anchor had just fetched away, the ship had begun to turn on her heel. Something had moved him to the depths, some gleam of colour, some distant view of the palm-covered islands in the offing. He stopped me in the weather alley-way, his delicate features working with a powerful emotion. "I’ve tried..." he began; then broke off for an instant, and drew nearer. "You know, I hardly said good-bye" he told me impressively "I went off in a great hurry that morning" He gazed at me profoundly, like a man looking at his own image in a mirror. "Do you know the Pacific?" he suddenly demanded. "Not very well" I answered "I’ve been to Honolulu, and New Caledonia. Nothing in between" "Oh..." he murmured "Then I must tell you" Without warning, he plunged into a relation of his own tale. I listened politely, then curiously, then with growing excitement. The tale transported him, inspired him. It was poetic drama, tragic and magnificent, that I heard; scene after scene unfolded itself before me as he talked, made real by his unconscious perfection of detail, and invested with truth by his air of fervour and simplicity. I saw the island in bold outline, in vivid colouring; I felt the hunger and thirst, and tasted the water that they found there on the beach; I looked up with him to behold the woman of his dreams. His dreams, or his memories—which was it? Had there ever been an island? The question seemed never so baffling as at that moment, when his present madness stood so openly revealed. After this experience he retained me in his confidence—didn’t want to talk about anything else but the vision that he saw and the sorrow that lay on his heart. It was very distressing. One morning as I came up the companion-way after breakfast, he plucked me nervously by the sleeve. "Look here" said he, leading me to windward "Nichols knows the position of that island. He’s trying to pass it..." "Nonsense, Devereux!" I exclaimed "You mustn’t credit such a thought. Nichols knows less about it than we do" "He’s always poring over the chart" said Devereux darkly "He tries to keep our position from me. Oh, I can see it in his eye!" "But we aren’t in that part of the world" I argued, like a man wrestling with the wind. He passed a hand wearily across his eye. "It looks the same" said he. Suddenly he shot at me a piercing glance. "I don’t know whether to believe you or not!" he snarled "You’re all against me, every damned one of you!"