And then there had been one face, so near that he could smell the sweat and feel his breath, and eyes which had seemed to fill it. He remembered seeing the blade, like a cutlass, and had wanted to cry out; he had been gripping the hanger in his fist as if he were holding on to life itself. The blow to his shoulder had numbed it before the agony began. But the eyes were still staring at him, fixed with shock or disbelief. And then he fell, the weight of his body almost dragging the blade from Bolitho’s fingers.

And a harsh voice almost in his ear; he had never discovered whose. ‘Leave ’im! ’E’s done for!’

Done for. He had killed someone. A lifetime ago.

He could still feel the blade jerk in his fist, as if he had only just been called to action, and seen a human being fall beneath his stroke.

He swung round and found the cabin servant watching him. No sound, no word; he had even lost track of time.

‘Come, sir.’

It was too soon. Where was Martyn? But the door to the inner cabin was open. Waiting.

He thought suddenly, wildly, of Lieutenant Verling’s words this morning.

It is not a contest.

He strode past the servant and heard the screen door close behind him.

Two tables had been placed end to end across the big dining cabin, behind which sat the three captains of the Board. It was like walking onto a stage with no audience, only the three motionless figures who were framed against the flag captain’s private day cabin behind them. The stern and quarter windows held and reflected every sort of light, from the sea below and beyond the poop, to the deepening purple haze of the main anchorage. There were already candles burning, so that the three figures on the other side of the table were almost in shadow.

There was one tall chair facing them. If any uncertainty still lingered in the newcomer’s mind, it was quickly dispelled: a sword, complete with belt, was laid across it.