‘ “Yes. Far enough,” I said. I was sorry for him; it was the other I hated. He hauled in his oar with a loud sigh, and as he was raising his hand to wipe his forehead with the air of a man who had done his work, I pulled the trigger of my revolver and shot him like this, off the knee, right through the heart.

‘He tumbled down, with his head hanging over the side of the boat. I did not give him a second glance. The other cried out piercingly. Only one shriek of horror. Then all was still.

‘He was slipping down off the thwart on to his knees and raised his joined hands before his face in an attitude of supplication. “Mercy,” he whispered, faintly. “Mercy for me!—comrade.”

‘ “Ah, comrade,” I said, in a low tone. “Yes, comrade, of course. Well, then, shout Vive l’anarchie.”

‘He flung up his arms, his face up to the sky and his mouth wide open in a great shout of despair. “Vive l’anarchie! Vive—”

‘He collapsed all in a heap, with a bullet through his head.

‘I flung them both overboard. I threw away the revolver, too. Then I sat down quietly. I was free at last! At last. I did not even look towards the ship. I did not care. Indeed, I think I must have gone to sleep, because all of a sudden there were shouts and I found the ship almost on top of me. They hauled me on board and secured the boat astern. They were all blacks, except the captain, who was a mulatto. He alone knew a few words of French. I could not find out where they were going nor who they were. They gave me something to eat every day; but I did not like the way they used to discuss me in their language. Perhaps they were deliberating about throwing me overboard in order to keep possession of the boat. How do I know? As we were passing this island I asked whether it was inhabitable. I understood from the mulatto that there was a house on it. A farm, I fancied. So I asked them to put me ashore there and keep the boat for their trouble. This, I imagine, was just what they wanted. The rest you know.’

After pronouncing these words he lost suddenly all control over himself. He paced to and fro, quicker and quicker, till he broke into a run; his arms went like a windmill and his ejaculations became very much like raving. The burden of them was that he ‘denied nothing, nothing!’ I could only let him go on, and sat out of his way, repeating, ‘Calmez vous,^* calmez vous,’ at intervals till his agitation exhausted itself.

I must confess, too, that I remained there long after he had crawled under his mosquito-net. He had adjured me not to leave him; so, as one sits up with a nervous child, I sat up with him—in the name of humanity—till he fell asleep.

On the whole, my idea is that he was much more of an anarchist than he confessed to me or to himself; and that, the special features of his case apart, he was very much like many other anarchists. Warm heart and weak head—that is the word of the riddle; and it is a fact that the bitterest contradictions and the deadliest conflicts of the world are carried on in every individual breast capable of feeling and passion.

From personal inquiry I can vouch that the story of the convict mutiny was in every particular as stated by him.

When I got back to Horta from Cayenne and saw the ‘anarchist’ again, he did not look well. He was more worn, still more frail, and very livid indeed under the grimy smudges of his calling. Evidently the meat of the company’s main herd (in its unconcentrated form) did not agree with him at all.

It was on the pontoon^* in Horta that we met; and I tried to induce him to leave the launch moored there and follow me to Europe there and then. It would have been delightful to think of the excellent manager’s surprise and disgust at the poor fellow’s escape. But he refused with unconquerable obstinacy.

‘Surely you don’t mean to live always here!’ I cried. He shook his head.

‘I shall die here,’ he said. Then added, moodily, ‘Away from them.’