Captain Cammock walked the poop with Margaret, pretending to watch the squaring of the yards. Both were puzzled and ill at ease. They were in that troublous state of waiting to be assured; their anxiety was such that a decisive blow, either for or against them, would have seemed better than the uncertainty which made them hope for one thing while fearing the other. On entering Chesapeake Bay, they had squared their yards, intending to run up past Stingray, to Hog Creek on the Accomac side, where some of Cammock’s friends were planting. But a man-of-war sloop, flying the ensign, and full of men, had crossed their bows, bidding them heave-to and send a boat. Cammock had gone aboard her to find out what she wanted; and had received orders to proceed direct to Jamestown, to discharge his cargo there. No explanation was given except that “Those were the orders.” The officer of the watch would tell him nothing more. He had returned on board after this, feeling sure that danger threatened them. He was inclined to think that word had come from England ordering their arrest on arrival. But he was not sure. The lieutenant had been surly after a drunken night. His remark of “You’ll find out about that when you get there” might have come from a momentary irritation at being questioned. Margaret had called up Stukeley, to tell him his fears, and Stukeley had counselled putting to sea. This was impossible; for the sloop was almost within hail; while without Point Comfort, under her whole topsails, her open port-lids flashing, was one of the two frigates on the station coming in from her cruise to take fresh water. They were in the trap; they could only hope for the best. Stukeley took the news badly. He stood by the mizen rigging, with a white face, licking his lips and making wild suggestions. “Couldn’t you put me ashore?” he asked. “Send me in a boat. Until you leave?” “How about Olivia? Have you told her yet, what you expect?” “No, of course I’ve not told her. Can’t you talk sense?” “Hadn’t you better tell her? I mean, as--in kindness to her.” “No. I can’t.” “Shall I tell her?” “My God, no. Look here, Margaret. I tell you why I can’t tell her. I’m a blackguard, and all that. Look here. She’s going to have a child.” “My God. Are you sure, Stukeley?” “Sure? Damn it, man. It’s serious. For God’s sake talk sense.” “Well. My God. She must be told, man. It’ll only be worse for her later.” “No, it won’t be.” “But what are you going to do?” “Do? I tell you it’ll be death for her if she learns.” “But you must think of her, Stukeley. Man. How. Supposing. She can’t come to Darien. It’s impossible.” “It’s not impossible. It’d be all right.” “Well, Stukeley, I give you up.” “What are you going to do?” “Things must take their course. I can’t think what I can do.” “Are you going to give me up?” “You must see that you’ll be taken. If there’s a letter.” “If. If. Oh. Good luck, you.”