“He went into the city.” His teeth chattered and clicked; he seemed to have been repeating his phrase for hours. “Into the city,” he repeated. He was ill, really ill. He was in a dream of fever. He was dreaming, he was in a nightmare, giving a message in that dream-speech which none comprehend save the speaker.
“He went into the city,” said Olivia slowly. She sank backwards, till she leaned against the bulkhead, her arms straying out along the beading. “But he came back. He came back.”
“No, ma’am,” said Cammock gently. “He didn’t come back.”
“He’s not killed? Not dead? Oh, can’t one of you speak?”
“I don’t know,” said Margaret. “We waited. He went into the city with them.”
“They made friends,” said Perrin. “Your husband went with the Spaniards.”
“Oh, won’t you tell me what has happened?”
“They waited in the boat, ma’am,” said Cammock. “But your husband didn’t come back. And then the Spaniards attacked the boat. Captain Margaret was wounded.”
“And you came away without him?”
“Yes, Olivia. He’s in the city.”