The _Broken Heart_ had had a fair summer passage, with no severe weather. She had spoken with no ships since leaving Falmouth. Her little company of souls had been thrown upon themselves, and the six weeks of close association had tried their nerves. There were tense nerves among the afterguard, on that sunny morning, just off Soundings. “Where are we?” Stukeley asked. “Just off Soundings,” said Margaret. “Where the blazes is that?” “About four hundred miles to the east of Accomac.” “How soon shall we get to Accomac?” “A week, perhaps. It depends on the wind.” “And then we’ll get ashore?” “Yes. If you think it safe.” “What the devil d’you mean?” Captain Margaret sat back in his chair and looked at Stukeley as an artist looks at his model. Many small, inconsidered, personal acts are revelations of the entire character; the walk, the smile, the sudden lifting of the head or hand, are enough, to the imaginative person. So, now, was Captain Margaret’s look a revelation. One had but to see him, to know the truth of Perrin’s epigram. Perrin had called him “a Quixote turned critic.” He looked at Stukeley as though he were above human anger; his look was almost wistful, but intense. He summed up the man’s character to himself, weighing each point with a shrewd, bitter clearness. His thought was of himself as a boy, pinning the newly killed moth upon the setting-board. “Look here,” said Stukeley. “Do you think it safe?” Stukeley rose from the locker and advanced across the cabin. “So little Maggy’s going to preach, is he?” he said lightly. “Let me recommend little Maggy to keep on his own side of the fence.” Margaret shrugged his shoulders. It seemed to him to be the most offensive thing he could do, in the circumstances. “Supposing that it’s not safe?” Stukeley laughed, and returned to the locker. He pulled out a pipe and began to fill it. “Maggy,” he said, “why don’t you get married?” “My destiny.” “Marriage goes by destiny. Eh?” “Marriage. And hanging, Stukeley.” That brought him from the locker again. “What the hell d’you mean by that?” “Oh,” said Margaret. “It’s safe in Accomac, I should think.” “What is?” “The evil-doer, Stukeley. The cheat, the ravisher, the---- But I don’t think you ever committed a murder. Not what is called murder by a jury.” “Ah. You cast that at me,” said Stukeley. “Recollect now, Maggy. That’s enough. I’d be sorry to hit you.” “Would you?” said Margaret. “Well. Perhaps. But if it’s not safe, Stukeley, what are you going to do?” “Stay here, little Maggy. Oh, ducky, you are so charming. I shall stay on board with my own little Maggy.” “You’d better remember my name when you speak again, Stukeley. I take no liberties from a forger.” “Have you been reading my papers? In my cabin?” “It _was_ forgery, wasn’t it?” “Is it any business of yours?” “Yes.” “How?”