Out of a massive visage, placid for all its ruggedness, shone eyes

large and timid as those of an animal or child bewildered among so

many people. There was an expression in them not so much cowed or

dismayed as “un-refuged”—the eyes of the hunted creature. That, at

least, was the first thing they betrayed; for the same second the

quick-blooded Celt caught another look: the look of a hunted creature

that at last knows shelter and has found it. The first expression had

emerged, then withdrawn again swiftly like an animal into its hole

where safety lay. Before disappearing, it had flashed a wireless

message of warning, of welcome, of explanation—he knew not what term

to use—to another of its own kind, to himself.

O’Malley, utterly arrested, stood and stared. He would have

spoken, for the invitation seemed obvious enough, but there came an

odd catch in his breath, and words failed altogether. The boy, peering

at him sideways, clung to his great parent’s side. For perhaps ten

seconds there was this interchange of staring, intimate staring,

between the three of them … and then the Irishman, confused, more

than a little agitated, ended the silent introduction with an

imperceptible bow and passed on slowly, knocking absent-mindedly

through the crowd, down to his cabin on the lower deck.

In his heart, deep down, stirred an indescribable sympathy with

something he divined in these two that was akin to himself, but that

as yet he could not name. On the surface he felt an emotion he knew

not whether to call uneasiness or surprise, but crowding past it, half

smothering it, rose this other more profound emotion. Something

enormously winning in the atmosphere of father and son called to him

in the silence: it was significant, oddly buried; not yet had it

emerged enough to be confessed and labelled. But each had recognized

it in the other. Each knew. Each waited. And it was extraordinarily

disturbing.

Before unpacking, he sat for a long time on his berth, thinking .

. . trying in vain to catch through a thunder of surprising emotions

the word that might bring explanation. That strange impression of

giant bulk, unsupported by actual measurements; that look of startled

security seeking shelter; that other look of being sure, of knowing

where to go and being actually en route,—all these, he felt, grew

from the same hidden cause whereof they were symptoms. It was this

hidden thing in the man that had reached out invisibly and fired his

own consciousness as their gaze met in that brief instant. And it had

disturbed him so profoundly because the very same lost thing lay

buried in himself. The man knew, whereas he anticipated merely—as

yet. What was it? Why came there with it both happiness and fear?

The word that kept chasing itself in a circle like a kitten after

its own tail, yet bringing no explanation, was Loneliness —a

loneliness that must be whispered. For it was loneliness on the verge

of finding relief. And if proclaimed too loud, there might come those

who would interfere and prevent relief. The man, and the boy too for

that matter, were escaping. They had found the way back, were ready

and eager, moreover, to show it to other prisoners.

And this was as near as O’Malley could come to explanation.