The chain cable rattled through the hawse hole, and in no long while the loading commenced, lasting until nightfall.  During this time Coronado chanced to learn that an officer was expected on board who would sail as far as San Diego; and, as all uniforms were bugbears to him, he watched for the new passenger with a certain amount of anxiety; taking care, by the way, to say nothing of him to Clara.  About eight in the evening, as the girl was playing some trivial game of cards with Garcia in the cabin, a splashing of oars alongside called Coronado on deck.  It was already dark; a sailor was standing by the manropes with a lantern; the captain was saying in a grumbling tone, “Very late, sir.”

“Had to wait for orders, captain,” returned a healthy, ringing young voice which struck Coronado like a shot.

“Orders!” muttered the skipper.  “Why couldn’t they have had them ready?  Here we are going to have a southeaster.”

There was anxiety as well as impatience in his voice; but Coronado just now could not think of tempests; his whole soul was in his eyes.  The next instant he beheld in the ruddy light of the lantern the face of the man who was his evil genius, the man whose death he had so long plotted for and for a time believed in, the man who, as he feared, would yet punish him for his misdeeds.  He was so thoroughly beaten and cowed by the sight that he made a step or two toward the companionway, with the purpose of hiding in the cabin.  Then desperation gave him courage, and he walked straight up to Thurstane.

“My dear Lieutenant!” he cried, trying to seize the young fellow’s hand.  “Once more welcome to life!  What a wonder!  Another escape.  You are a second Orlando—­almost a Don Quixote.  And where are your two Sancho Panzas?”

“You here!” was Thurstane’s grim response, and he did not take the proffered hand.

“Come!” implored Coronado, stepping toward the waist of the vessel and away from the cabin.  “This way, if you please,” he urged, beckoning earnestly.  “I have a word to say to you in private.”

Not a tone of this conversation had been heard below.  Before the boat had touched the side the crew were laboring at the noisy windlass with their shouts of “Yo heave ho! heave and pawl! heave hearty ho!” while the mate was screaming from the knight-heads, “Heave hearty, men—­heave hearty.  Heave and raise the dead.  Heave and away.”

Amid this uproar Coronado continued:  “You won’t shake hands with me, Lieutenant Thurstane.  As a gentleman, speaking to another gentleman, I ask an explanation.”

Thurstane hesitated; he had ugly suspicions enough, but no proofs; and if he could not prove guilt, he must not charge it.

“Is it because we abandoned you?” demanded Coronado.  “We had reason.  We heard that you were dead.  The muleteers reported Apaches.  I feared for the safety of the ladies.  I pushed on.  You, a gentleman and an officer—­what else would you have advised?”