Margaret burst out crying, with the tearless grief of an overwrought man. “I wish all this had never happened,” he said. “I wish it had all never happened. Never happened.” He checked himself, half aware, in the misery of his fever, that he had to answer Olivia. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me to-night,” he said. “I’ve got such white hands. Such white hands, like a girl.” He laughed in a shrill, silly cackle. “You must think me a silly girl,” he said. “Charles,” Olivia cried. “I’m all right,” he said. “I’m all right.” He pulled himself together with an effort. “Look here,” he said. “Here. I oughtn’t to have let him go alone. It was my fault. All my fault. Into the city alone. You say I thought of this. Never entered my head. Never. I’m talking like a drunk man. What’s the matter with you? No. It was my fault. But. Olivia. Olivia. Don’t. Don’t cry. We’ll get him back. We’ll take Tolu. I swear I’ll take Tolu. I’ll bring him back to you, Olivia. Only. You don’t mean what you said then.” He sank back in his chair. “I think I’m tired,” he added weakly. Olivia was on her knees at his side, pressing his hand to her heart. “Charles,” she said. “Charles, you’re hurt. You’re hurt. Wounded. I didn’t mean that, Charles. I was upset. But. Oh, you’ll bring him back. Bring him back to me.” “I’ll bring him back to you, Olivia,” he answered, stroking her hand. “I’ll bring him back.” He raised her from the deck. “And I’ll help him to that. To what you talked of. This morning.” “To?” “The new life together,” he whispered. “Oh, Lord, Olivia. Stop those guns. Stop those guns. They’re red-hot.” From very far away, in the heat of the battle, in the smoke and trampling, where the triumphing horses laughed, he seemed to hear Olivia’s voice. “My God. I’ve kept him here. And he’s wounded. Edward. Edward. Is he dead?” “Help me, captain,” said Perrin’s voice. “You’ve kept him on the rack, Olivia.” “Don’t say that,” she said. “Lay him on my bed. That’ll be quieter. I must nurse him. Let me have some bark and limes, Captain Cammock. Lay him down there. Now some cold water.” He was half conscious of being lifted out of the light, while a multitude of Spaniards charged him. He saw the faces, he saw the horses’ heads flung back, and the foam spatting their bit-cups. He was slashing at spear-heads, which pressed in a crown of points about his skull. After that, he fell into the wildness of fever, seeing that endless vision in his brain, the endless, disordered procession of soldiers, and guns, and ships, which shouted crabbed poetry, poetry of Donne, difficult to scan, exasperating:-- “Men of France,” the procession shouted, “changeable chameleons, Spitals of diseases, shops of fashions.” So he lay, for many hours, feverish and sick, rambling and incoherent.