Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. “That cannot happen!” She replied, feeling her world start to disintegrate underneath her feet. "Weigh anchor, Van!" he shouted to the skipper, "and consult your despatches.
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