“Well, Olivia,” he said gravely. He took her hands in his, wondering, dully, if he would ever see her again. “I’m just off, Olivia.” “I wanted to see you,” she said, in a shaking little voice. “I know I’ve only a minute. I tried last night. I want to thank you, Charles. You’ve been good. You’ve been very good to me. Whether you succeed. Or don’t succeed. I mean now. On shore. I. I thank you. Thank you. God keep you.” “You, too, Olivia.” He felt that this was the supreme moment of his life, this moment in the dark, with the forms of seamen passing across the door, and the white, beloved face half seen, strained up towards him. He knew that he might kiss her face. Their souls were very near together, nearer, he knew, than they would ever again be. There was the beloved face near his; there was his reward, after all these days, after all this wandering the world. “Good-bye, Olivia.” She did not answer, but her hands pressed his hands to her side for a moment. “We shall be back in a few hours, Olivia.” “Ah, not that. Not that,” she said, shuddering. “Never that again.” “Perhaps, Olivia, he may be with us.” “No,” she said faintly. “I must go now, Olivia. Good-bye.” “Good-bye,” she murmured. “God keep you, Charles.” He knew that he might kiss her face; but would not. He knew that it was the mood and the moment which brought them thus together. She should never reproach herself. He did not love for pay. He pressed her hands for an instant. “Good-bye then,” he said lightly. “Thank you,” she said, so lowly that he could hardly hear her. He knew that she stood there, leaning against the bulkhead in the dark, long after he had reached the deck. It was like waking from a dream to come on deck again. “Good-bye, Cammock,” he said, putting his emotion from him. “We’ve got our bearings. Don’t stand further in for half an hour. If anything happens. Well. We’ve talked that out. Haven’t we? Good-bye, Edward.” “Good-bye. Look here, Charles. Here are my pistols. I should like you to have them.” “Very well,” he said. “Thanks. How do you put them on?” He slung the pistol-belt over his shoulder, in the sea-style. “Good-bye,” he said again. “Look after her.” He passed quickly down the ladder to the waiting canoas, which still dragged at the gangway with their freights of armed men. A canoa was pulling towards them out of the night; her oars stroked the sea into flame. Gleams of flame broadened at her bows. Little bright sparks scattered from the oar-blades as the rowers feathered. “Is that you, Captain Margaret?” said Pain’s voice. “I’ve sent Tucket’s party on ahead. They’ve got a mile further to pull than we got. We’re all ready ahead there. You’re all ready and loaded, and your guns flinted?” “Yes. All ready here, Captain Pain.” “Your oars are in grummets, ain’t they?” “Yes, all of them.” “And you’ve all got white scarves on your arms? Right. The word is ‘Up with her.’” “‘Up with her.’ You hear that, all of you? The word is ‘Up with her.’”