“I picked these rosebuds, and this pebble, Olivia. From the grave. For you.”
The rosebuds were crushed and dropping. She took them in the hollow of her hand. There was a grace in all that she did. The holding out of her delicate palm was beautiful; the movement showed curiously her exquisite refinement; it was as though she had said some beautiful thing; her mind showed in it. She took the relics, looking not at them, but at Charles, her eyes swimming with tears, her dear mind wild with tears.
“Thank you,” she said, on a sob. “You planted the roses, Charles? You thought of it.”
He did not answer. He turned his head, to look out over Tolu. The ship was moving slowly, heading out over the gulf; the fiery town was dwindling; the wake whirled pale bubbles about the rudder.
“I think no other man would have thought of it,” she said quietly.
“Ah,” he said, sighing.
“Charles,” she said, “tell me now, will you. That’s over. That part. What happened in the town?”
“The men got drunk, Olivia, and set the town on fire. They sacked the place. When I came back to the Plaza. Oh, I can’t. I can’t.”
“You sent off the wounded, then, did you not?”
“Yes.”