One hour later she had gone back to the mission—without the salt. "They say her son's taken at last, and is to be hanged. Tom swore he hadn't set eyes on him since the trial. “How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. She had, by the magic of recollection, set the picture of the typhoon between herself and her table companions: the terrible rollers thundering on the white shore, the deafening bellow of the wind, the bending and snapping palms, the thatches of the native huts scattering inland, the blur of sand dust, and those two outcasts defying the elements. Look at it, I say. Trodger might not need his hair dressed, but the flagon of ale that each soldier quaffed would be welcome—once his captain had departed, thought Roding cynically.
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