“He’s got my map-book, then,” said Cammock. “He’s gone with my map-book.” “Yes,” said Margaret, getting out of the chair. “Your map-book. It’s in his pocket. I think I saw it there.” “Lean on me, sir,” said Cammock. “The lady’s expecting you. She’s sitting up in the cabin.” “Let me go. You turn in. I’ll break it to her,” Perrin said. “No. I must go,” Margaret answered. “How has it been here, captain?” Feverish as he was, he felt that he had been away for many days. The ship was strange to him. “I’ve been throwing the ship overboard, looking for my maps,” Cammock answered. “How is your hurt, sir? When you talk to the lady, you had better have a drop of something. Just stop at my cabin for a moment.” He fetched wine and bark from his cupboard. Then the three men entered the cabin, where Olivia stood expectantly, her cheeks flushed, waiting for her husband’s return. She had made the most of her beauty for him. She had decked herself out with an art that brought tears to Perrin’s eyes. She had done her best, poor beauty, to keep the heart which, as she thought, she had won back again. Looking at her, as she stood there, Perrin learned that Stukeley had commended a slip of black velvet round her throat, that he had praised her arms, that he liked the hair heaped in such a fashion, with a ribbon of such a tone of green. He guessed all this at a glance, telling himself that he must never again speak of these things to her. And the poor girl had rouged her cheeks, to hide the paleness. She had pencilled her eyebrows. She had drunken some drug to make her eyes bright. In the soft light of the lamp she looked very beautiful. She stood there, half-way to the door, waiting for the lover of her love-days to take her to his heart again. “Where is Tom?” she said. “You’re hurt, Charles. Where’s Tom? He isn’t killed? He isn’t killed?” “He went into the city,” said Margaret dully. “He went into the city.” His teeth chattered and clicked; he seemed to have been repeating his phrase for hours. “Into the city,” he repeated. He was ill, really ill. He was in a dream of fever. He was dreaming, he was in a nightmare, giving a message in that dream-speech which none comprehend save the speaker. “He went into the city,” said Olivia slowly. She sank backwards, till she leaned against the bulkhead, her arms straying out along the beading. “But he came back. He came back.” “No, ma’am,” said Cammock gently. “He didn’t come back.” “He’s not killed? Not dead? Oh, can’t one of you speak?” “I don’t know,” said Margaret. “We waited. He went into the city with them.” “They made friends,” said Perrin. “Your husband went with the Spaniards.” “Oh, won’t you tell me what has happened?” “They waited in the boat, ma’am,” said Cammock. “But your husband didn’t come back. And then the Spaniards attacked the boat. Captain Margaret was wounded.” “And you came away without him?” “Yes, Olivia. He’s in the city.”