Farther along there was a new rift, which widened into a gap, a black hole. Edevart resolutely altered course; he pulled the tiller toward him as far as he could and sent the boat into the hole. It was a gamble; they might have been smashed there. Neither of them knew the coastline; luck would decide. But Edevart’s nervous energy was pretty well exhausted; he was no longer capable of facing the open sea; his face was gray. When August saw land on both sides, it galvanized him into life again. He finished bailing, seized the boat hook, and sat tensed to save himself if they ran aground. “When I shout, heave out the anchor!” Edevart commanded, still thinking ahead.

There was no need to throw out the anchor. They had fools’ luck and did not run aground. The black hole which bored into the island swung around and ended in a bay. A boat lay there ahead, four-oared, in calm water, moored with a simple anchor. Here there was no wind; in the end they had to take the oars and row ashore to the beach.

They were saved.

Edevart might have crowed now, but he made no great fuss. His mouth was bloodless; it looked frozen stiff and he said nothing. August did what had to be done: took the rope ashore and tied up the boat, bailed it dry and spread out the sail. When all was done, Edevart braced himself and, in order to seem calm, said: “Negroes, you said. What Negroes were they?”

“Well, it was in one of those hot countries,” said August shyly and shook his head. “But that doesn’t concern us now!”

Edevart might well have liked to press him on this and not let him off so easily, but his esteem for his comrade dissuaded him. Apart from that, he couldn’t face it just now. He was no longer so grown-up and self-assured as he had been on the voyage. When he came ashore, he began to feel terribly ill; the tension was lifted; he began to retch. August stood by him and helped him over the first painful moments.

“Do you feel rotten?” he asked.

“No,” answered Edevart, and was sick.

It seemed to be a long way to people and houses; there was a little boathouse, but it was secured with a wooden lock. August wanted to break down the door, but Edevart objected. They ended up by sitting in the shelter of the boathouse, ate some of their provisions, and waited for morning. Edevart revived a little; he wanted to know more about his comrade’s various confessions, but August answered evasively. Edevart wasn’t a sixteen-year-old for nothing. He couldn’t forget the Negro girl.

“What did you do to her?” he asked.

“What did we do to her? Nothing!”

“But there were four of you to one of her?”

“Did I say four? You mustn’t ask. She was only a youngster, so we didn’t do anything to her, you understand. It was somebody we met on the road.”

“Did she scream?” asked Edevart.

August did not answer this; instead, he said: “She was no bigger than Ragna back home. But the thing is that in hot countries they are adult while they are still children. They get married at Ragna’s age.