“Yes, yes. Never mind that. Word of honour’s enough between gentlemen. Oh, no, I shall not search, sir. I am satisfied.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Celia.
“Hah!” ejaculated Archy in a sigh of relief.
“Now, Mr Raystoke, midshipman,” said the lieutenant merrily. “My chief officer, ladies! Come, we have a great deal to do. Good morning. If you will pay us a visit on the cutter, we shall be only too proud to see you.”
A friendly salute was interchanged, and Archy emphasised his by holding out his hand to Celia.
“Good-bye,” he said. “Don’t hate me, please. I only did my duty.”
“I don’t hate you,” she replied, giving him her hand. Only a boy and girl; but Archy looked back several times, as they marched downward to the cliff, and then up its steep, grassy slope, to see at a turn a white handkerchief being waved to him.
“Why—hullo, Mr Raystoke!” cried the lieutenant merrily. “Oh, I see. Well, wait till you become a post-captain, and I hope I shall be an admiral by then, and that you will ask me to honour the wedding.”
“Hush, pray, sir!” said Archy. “Some of the men will hear.”
But the men did not hear, for they were quietly trudging along over the short grass, chewing their quids, and discussing the fire in the cave; those who had escaped relating again to those who were on the cutter their terrible experiences before the powder caught.