In the morning, when they were under way, with the two little hills of Pinos astern of them, and the ship’s bows turned towards Morrosquillo, far to the east, still two days distant, Captain Margaret sent Perrin to the cabin to request an audience with Olivia. As he had feared, she refused to see him. She sat, pale and exhausted, at the table, Perrin said, too weary of life to ask whither they were bound, or to ask the nature of their consorts, now sailing easily, under reduced sail, near the lumbering _Broken Heart_, foul with long weeks at sea. She did not care what happened; but, finding Perrin importunate, she left the cabin, and for two days saw no one. On the second day the ships anchored between Ceycen and the Overfalls, in a harbour shut away by wooden keys, from which the brooks fell pleasantly, with a rippling chatter, that was drowsy and delightsome, after the glare of the sun on the sea, in the hot calms. They loaded the sloop with samples during the afternoon, and chose out hands to go in her. Stukeley was to go as herald and interpreter, Margaret as principal, in case the matter came to a conference; while as crew they picked ten from the _Broken Heart_, five from Pain, five from Tucket, all good shots, well armed. Perrin was to stay aboard with Cammock, so that Olivia might have a friend aboard, in case the sloop was lost. After breakfast, Margaret made a last attempt to speak with her. He entered the cabin unannounced, to find her sitting alone, in a black gown, a Bible before her, and her face all pale, her eyes with dark rings round them. She looked up as he entered, then sank back, closing her eyes, with a sharp intake of her breath. “What do you want with me?” she asked in a hard voice. “Have you come to see if--if----” “Olivia,” he answered, “I’ve come to tell you that I’m going to a town, now. There’s danger. I’m going with. I mean. Your husband is coming. It’s a dangerous service. I want you to try to realize that. That your husband’s going on a dangerous service. That you might like to see him.” “Yes,” she answered. “That I might like to see him. Go on.” “That is all,” he said. “Except that I may not see you again. That I wouldn’t like.” The words dragged; his mouth was quite dry. He stumbled in his speech and began again. “Olivia,” he said. “My conduct. I thought I acted for the best. I ask you to forgive me.” “Forgive you?” she said. “Thank you. But I’ve no wish to. You lied to me from the moment I came into the ship. You lied at Salcombe. At Falmouth. All the voyage. In Virginia. And then you thought you had lied enough for your purpose. You let me learn the truth.” “Yes,” he answered, “I lied. I lied to save you.” “Ah,” she said, with disgust. “You lied to save me, till it was too late for me to hear the truth.”