Very slowly the men at the capstan walked the canoas to the side. Margaret stood on his own deck again, asking himself how many years had gone since he last stood there. The guns were cast loose. Round shot, fallen from the garlands, rolled to and fro as the ship rolled. The decks were littered with wads. Smears, as of lamp-black, showed where the gun-sponges had been dropped. The hammock-nettings were fire-pocked and filthy. There were marks of blood on the coamings, where wounded men had lain, waiting to be carried below. “Charles,” said Perrin, “you come to the cabin and lie down. I’ll fetch Olivia to you. She’s with the wounded. What about Stukeley?” “He’s dead, Edward. He died of yellow fever this morning. I buried him.” “My God. Dead?” “Yes. He was married there.” “He deserted then, that time?” “Yes.” “And so he’s dead. The dead are.” “The dead are our only links with God, I think,” Margaret said gravely. “I’ve been in hell to-day, Edward. In hell. In hell.” He lay down on the window-seat in the cabin, where Stukeley had so often lain. The breeze had swung the ship head to sea. He had only to turn his head to see the fire of Tolu, burning below its pillar of cloud. The sea-wall spurted with smoke at intervals. The flashes were very white and bright, not like the smoke of firelocks. Cammock came in to him with a mess of cold poultice for his head. “We’re getting under way, sir,” he said. “The Dagoes are blowing the spikes out of their guns. They’ll be firing soon. We’re cutting our cable, sir. We haven’t strength to weigh. Tucket the same. Mrs. Stukeley is coming to you, sir. I told her you were hurt. She wants you not to get up, sir.” He then went away. By and by Olivia entered. “Don’t get up, Charles,” she said. “Oh. Don’t get up.” He raised himself to greet her, looking at her sadly. She came up to him and took his hand, and sat at his side. “Olivia,” he said gently. “Olivia, I bring another sorrow for you. Your husband is dead, Olivia. He died this morning.” “Yes,” she answered quietly. “I knew he would be dead.” He tried to read her thought; but his head was stupid with pain; he could not. He saw only the calm, pale face with that quality of mystery upon it which is upon all beauty. “I feel for your sorrow,” he stammered. “Yes, Charles,” she answered. “You feel for my sorrow, I know.” “Olivia,” he said, “would it pain you too much to hear. To hear about it?” “You ought not to be talking with your wound, Charles.” “I must tell you, Olivia. If you can bear it. It may be harder to-morrow.” “Tell me then,” she said. “If you feel. If you wish. I am quite calm, Charles. Tell me everything.” “He died of yellow fever, Olivia. In the Governor’s house there. The tall house above the bastion there.” “I can’t look, Charles. Don’t tell me where. I’m. Yes?” “He was ill for four days,” Margaret continued. “They thought he was getting better yesterday.” “They, Charles? Who were ‘they’?”