But he never lost his head. He was checked by the thought
that this was no escape. He imagined himself dead, and the disgrace,
the shame going on. Or, rather, properly speaking, he could not imagine
himself dead. He was possessed too strongly by the sense of his own
existence, a thing of infinite duration in its changes, to grasp the
notion of finality. The earth goes on for ever.
And he was courageous. It was a corrupt courage, but it was as good
for his purposes as the other kind. He sailed close to the cliff of the
Great Isabel, throwing a penetrating glance from the deck at the mouth
of the ravine, tangled in an undisturbed growth of bushes. He sailed
close enough to exchange hails with the workmen, shading their eyes on
the edge of the sheer drop of the cliff overhung by the jib-head of a
powerful crane. He perceived that none of them had any occasion even to
approach the ravine where the silver lay hidden; let alone to enter it.
In the harbour he learned that no one slept on the island. The labouring
gangs returned to port every evening, singing chorus songs in the empty
lighters towed by a harbour tug.
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