“It ain’t very polite to accept. Eh? I’ll go alone. He knows you’ve a commission. I’ve shown him that duplicate. It’s all right. I’ll go off now. So long, my Maggy. Con Dios, caballero. Try and keep warm on the sands here.” He saluted the boat’s crew, gave Margaret a queer glance, and rejoined the capataz, who bowed to them gravely. The negro with the pennon led the dismounted horse. The capataz walked with Stukeley, followed by the other troopers. They went slowly towards the gate of the city. The troopers made their horses curvet and passage, clashing their silver gear. Margaret stood at the lip of the water, watching them, till they had passed within the gate, followed by the rabble. The boatmen held that it would not be politic to return to the sloop. “It might seem as we didn’t trust them,” Tucket said. So they rigged the boat-rug as an awning over the sternsheets, and whiled away the time, suffering much from the heat. It was a stifling day. The time passed slowly, with many calls for the water-breaker. They made their dinner of plantains, then smoked, exchanging stories, longing for Stukeley’s return. Margaret found the time less irksome than he had expected; for Tucket began to talk, out of a full heart, about the subjects dear to him. He had never had such a listener before. Margaret drew him out, with his usual sympathy, till the man’s inmost life was bare before him. Such woods would take a polish, and such other woods would take a stain; and such and such resins, why should they not stain a wood to all colours of the rainbow, if treated with care in the right way? It would be fine, Captain Tucket said, to be a chemist, and have nothing else to do but to watch your dye vats all day long. Vats of indigo, of anatta, of cochineal, all the lovely colours, and---- Say. If one could get a green that showed the light in it, like the water breaking on a reef. The hours passed; it was nearly three o’clock; but still no Stukeley. “The Guv’nor dines late,” said one of the men. “I guess it’s difficult to get away from the donnas,” said another. The others laughed; for Stukeley’s faults were well known. “I dunno, sir,” said Tucket. “It seems a bit odd.” “He seemed very sanguine about it,” Margaret answered. “I ain’t much charmed with your friend myself,” said Tucket. “I don’t trust that Master Stukeley.” “You don’t think he’s deserted? Is that your meaning?” “Well, I wouldn’t a trusted him to be my interpreter,” Tucket answered, with the growl of one whose superior wisdom, now proved, is proved too late. “We could a give you Thomas Gandy. He’d have done as good. He knows Spanish just like a book, Tom do. And you could a trusted Tom with your life. Now you ain’t on too good terms with the Mr. Stukeley feller.” “Shall I go into the town, then? To see if anything’s wrong?” “Why, no, sir. That’s putting your joint in the fire to hot your soup. Stay here, sir.” “Well, we’ll wait a little longer. What d’you say to bathing?”