‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. Leonardo had taught her pretty well everything she could have need to know, when they had talked long at his bedside. 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. Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities. His name is carved upon a beam up stairs.
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