"O cull," says I hoarsely, "a mouthful o' water—"

"Pal," says he, winking, "all's bowmon!" Whereupon he turned and vanished in the crowd and I, burning in a fever of thirst, panted for his return, straining my eyes for sight of him; then, as he came not, I groaned and drooped my head, and lo! even then he was before me bearing a tin pannikin full of water. This in hand, he mounted the steps of the pillory and, despite the jeers and hootings of the crowd, was lifting the life-giving water to my eager lips when forth leapt the big fellow and sent water and pannikin flying with a savage blow of his fist.

"None o' that, peddler!" he roared. And now, as I groaned and licked at bleeding lips with swollen tongue, the little man turned (quick as a flash), tripped up the great fellow's heels and, staying for no more, made off through the crowd, that gave him passage, howling its acclaim.

The afternoon dragged wearily on and, what with the suffocating stench of the filth that plastered me, what with heat and dust and agonising thirst, my suffering grew almost beyond endurance; a deadly nausea seized me and I came nigh to swooning. But now, in this my great extremity, of a sudden, from somewhere on the outskirts of the crowd rose a shrill cry of "Fire!" the which cry, being taken up by others, filled the air with panic, the crowd melted as if by magic until the village green and the road were quite deserted. All this I noted but dimly (being more dead than alive) when I became conscious of one that spake in my ear.

"Stand by, shipmate, stand by! There's never a rogue left—all run to the fire—stand by to slip your moorings!"

"Let be," I groaned, "I'm a dead man!"

"Then here's that shall make ye quick," says this fellow Penfeather, dangling a great key before my swimming eyes. "Here's freedom from your devil's trap and a plaguy time I've had to come by it."

"Then for the love o' God—let me out," I groaned.

"Easy all, shipmate!" says he, turning the key upon his finger. "For look'ee now, here's me, (a timid man) run no small risk this last half-hour and all for you. Now a bargain's a bargain, you'll agree?"

"Well?" says I, faintly.

"Why then, shipmate, if I free ye of your bonds, wilt be my comrade sworn? Aye or no?"

"No!" says I. "Plague take ye that bargain with dying man. No!"

"Why then," sighs he, "here's a good rick ablaze, here's John Purdy the beadle wi' his head broke, and here's me in a sweat, alack—and all to no purpose, since needs must you in your bilboes bide."

"Do but get me a draft of water!" I pleaded.

"Nary a drop!" says he, spinning the key on his finger under my nose, "Nor yet a foaming stoup o' good Kentish ale—nut brown—"

"Ha, rogue—rogue!" I panted, 'twixt parched lips. "I'll yet—avenge this torment—an' I live!"

"The legs of a man," says he, "are a vain thing and his strength likewise, and as to vengeance, shipmate, well—how goeth your vengeance as be more to ye than fortune or riches?" Here he paused, but I held my peace and he continued, "Here's you now, you that was so mighty and fierce—aye, a very hell-fire roarer—here's that same you a-hanging here a very helpless, pitiful fool, shipmate, and thirsty 'twould seem—"

Here I groaned again.

"And one not over sweet!" says he, stopping his nose.

Hereupon I cursed him, though faintly, and he comes a step nearer.

"'Tis said my Lady Brandon and her gallant Sir Rupert Dering—him you overthrew, shipmate—do mean to come and take a look at you anon, though 'tis shame you should be made a raree show—burn me!"

Hereupon, I fell into a sudden raging fury, striving so desperately against my bonds that the devilish engine wherein I stood shook and rattled again; but I strove to no purpose, and so presently hung there spent and bruised and breathless whiles Penfeather spun the key on his finger and sighed:

"Shipmate," says he, "wherefore irk yourself wi' bonds? Say but the word and I'll deliver ye, bring ye to safe harbourage and cherish ye with much good ale. Be persuaded, now."

"Why then," groans I, "give me but until to-morrow to do what I will—and I'm yours!"

"Done!" says he, and forthwith set key to padlock; but scarce had he freed the head-board than he falls a-cursing 'neath his breath. "Easy, comrade, easy!" quoth he, softly. "Bide still awhile—hither cometh yon beefy fool back again—so will I make show of miscalling ye till he be gone." The which he did forthwith, giving me "scurvy rogue" and the like. Now, lifting my head, whom should I behold but that same tall fellow had been my chief tormenter, and who now hasted over the green towards us.

"It be now't but Farmer Darrell's rick ablaze," says he to Penfeather, "so let 'un burn, says I, Farmer Darrell be no friend o' mine. So I be come to sport wi' yon big rogue awhile." Herewith he stooped for some missile to cast at me; but now I straightened my back, the head-board gave and, ere the fellow was aware, I was creeping swiftly upon him. Taken thus by surprise small chance had he, for, leaping on him, I bore him over on his back and kneeling on him, buried my fingers in his throat. And so I choked him (right joyfully) till Penfeather gripped my arm.

"Lord love me!" cries he, "Will ye kill the fool?"

"That will I!"

"And hang for him?"

"Nay—he's scarce worth it."

"Then, devil burn ye—loose his windpipe!" So I loosed the fellow's throat, and, despite his feeble kicks, began to drag him over the grass.

"What now, comrade?" says Penfeather. "Sink me, what now?"

"Watch and see!" So I brought the fellow to the pillory wherein I set him, and plucking the key from Penfeather, locked him there in my stead; which done I kicked him once or twice, and having found the cat's carcass made shift to hang the stinking thing about his neck; then tossing the key into the pond, I took to my heels and left the fellow groaning mighty dismal.



CHAPTER VII

HOW I HEARD TELL OF BLACK BARTLEMY'S TREASURE

Now scarce was I clear of the village than I was again seized of a deadly sickness and vertigo so that I stumbled and was like to fall, but that Penfeather propped me with his shoulder. In this fashion I made shift to drag myself along, nor would he suffer me stay or respite (maugre my weakness) until, following the brook, he had brought me into the green solitude of the woods.

Here then I sank down, sucking up the cool, sweet water 'twixt parched lips, drinking until Penfeather stayed me, lest I should do myself hurt thereby. Thereafter, from strength reviving, I bathed my divers wounds (the which, though painful, were of small account) and fell to cleansing my spattered garments as well as I might.

"So we're to be comrades, after all!" says Penfeather, watching me where he sat hard by.

"Aye—to-morrow!"

"And how goeth vengeance, shipmate?" At this I turned on him with clenched fist. "Nay, easy does it," says he, never budging, "for if 'twas the folly of vengeance brought ye in the peccadille, 'twas your comrade Adam Penfeather got ye out again—so easy all!"

"'Twas you fired the rick, then?"

"None other!"

"'Tis a hanging matter, I've heard!"

"Why a man must needs run some small risk for his comrade d'ye see—"

"Then, Adam Penfeather, I'm your debtor."

"Nay," says he, "there be no debts 'twixt comrades o' the Brotherhood, 'tis give and take, share and share!" And speaking, he drew forth a purse and emptying store of money on the grass betwixt us, divided it equally and pushed a pile of silver and copper towards me.

"And what's this?" I demanded.

"Share and share, comrade!"

"But I'm no comrade o' yours till after to-night."

"Aha!" says he, pinching his long chin. "Is't more vengeance then?"

"Keep your money till it be earned!" I muttered.

"Sink me—and there's pride for ye!" says he. "Pride which is a vain thing and vengeance which is a vainer. Lord love me, shipmate, 'tis plain to see you're o' the quality, 'spite your rags—blue blood, high-breeding, noblesse oblige and all the rest on't."

"Stint your gab!" says I, scowling.

"'Tis writ large all over ye," he went on placidly enough. "As for me, I'm but a plain man wi' no time for vengeance and no whit o' pride about me anywhere. What I says to you is, get to wind'ard o' vengeance—nay, heave it overboard, shipmate, and you'll ride the easier, aye and sweeter, and seek something more useful—gold, for instance, 'tis a handy thing, I've heard say—so ha' done wi' vengeance!"

"No!" says I, frowning. "Not—nay, not for all Bartlemy's treasure!"

"Aha!" quoth he softly. "So you've heard tell of it then, along the Spanish Main?"

"I heard tell of it last night in a cave from a sailor-man."

"How?" says he starting and with keen eyes glancing hither and thither. "A sailor-man—hereabouts?"

"Damme!" says I, "the country seems thick o' sailor-men."

"Ha! D'ye say so? And what like was this one?"

"A comely rogue that sang strange song."

"Ah!" said Penfeather, his eyes narrowing. "A song, says you—and strange—how strange?"

"'Twas all of dead men and murder!"

"D'ye mind any line o't, shipmate?"

"Aye, the words of it went somewhat like this:

"'Some on a knife did part wi' life And some a bullet took O! But—'"

Now here, as I stopped at a loss, my companion took up the rhyme almost unconsciously and below his breath:

"'But three times three died plaguily A wriggling on a hook O!'

"Comrade!" says he in the same low voice, "Did ye see ever among these mariners a one-handed man, a tall man wi' a hook in place of his left hand—a very bright, sharp hook?" And now as Penfeather questioned me, he seized my wrist and I was amazed at the iron grip of him.

"No!" I answered.

"Nay," says he, loosing his hold, "how should you—he's dead, along o' so many on 'em! He's done for—him and his hook, devil burn him!"

"'A hook both long and stout and strong, They died by gash o' hook O!'"

"Ah!" I cried. "So that was the kind of hook!"

"Aye!" nodded Penfeather, "That was the kind. A bullet's bad, a knife's worse, but a steel hook, shipmate, very sharp d'ye see, is a death no man should die. Shipmate, I've seen divers men dead by that same hook—torn and ripped d'ye see—like a dog's fangs! I'd seen many die ere then, but that way—'twas an ill sight for queasy stomachs!"

"And he—this man with the hook is dead, you say?"

"And burning in hell-fire!"

"Are you sure?"

"I killed him, shipmate!"

"You!" says I.

"I, shipmate. We fought on a shelf o' rock high above the sea, my knife agin his knife and hook—'twas that same hook gave me this scar athwart my jaw—but as he struck, I struck and saw him go spinning over and over, down and down and splash into the sea. And for three days I watched that bit o' shore, living on shell-fish and watching for him, to make sure I had finished him at last."

"And these other rogues?" says I.

"What like were they, shipmate?" Hereupon I described (as fully as I might) the three sailor-men I had fought with in the hedge-tavern (albeit I made no mention of the maid), while Penfeather listened, nodding now and then and pinching at his long chin. "And this other fellow," says he, when I had done, "this fellow that sang—d'ye know if his name chanced to be Mings—Abnegation Mings, comrade?"

"The very same!" says I.

"Strange!" quoth Penfeather, and thereafter sat staring gloomily down into the rippling waters of the brook for a while. "I wonder?" says he at last. "I wonder?"

"What think ye shall bring these fellows so far from the coast—what should they be after?"

"Me, shipmate!"

"You!" says I for the second time, marvelling at the strange quiet of him. "And what would they have of you?"

"My life, shipmate, and one other thing. What that thing is I will tell you when we have drunk the blood-brotherhood! But now it behoveth me to be a-going, so I'll away. But when you shall seek me, as seek me ye will, shipmate, shalt hear of me at the Peck-o'-Malt tavern, which is a small, quiet place 'twixt here and Bedgebury Cross. Come there at any hour, day or night, and say 'The Faithful Friend,' and you shall find safe harbourage. Remember, comrade, the word is 'The Faithful Friend,' and if so be you can choose your time—night is better." So saying, he arose.

"Wait!" says I, pointing to the coins yet lying on the grass. "Take your money!"

"'Tis none o' mine," says he, shaking his head. "Keep it or throw it away—'tis all one to me!" Then he went away through the wood and, as he went, I thought he walked with a new and added caution.



CHAPTER VIII

HOW I FELL IN WITH ONE GOD-BE-HERE, A PEDDLER

Evening was at hand as I reached a little alehouse well away from the road and pleasantly secluded by trees: thither came I, fondling Penfeather's money in my pocket, for I was again mightily sharp set. But all at once I stopped, for, passing the open lattice, I heard loud laughter and a merry voice:

"And there, believe me, gossips" (quoth this voice), "as sure as this be beef—aye, and good beef and cooked to a turn, mistress—there's this great, lob-lolly, hectoring Tom Button fast i' the pillory—and by this good ale, a woeful sight, his eyes blacked, his nose a-bleeding, his jerkin torn and a dead cat about his neck, oho—aha! Tom Button—big Tom, fighting Tom so loud o' tongue and ready o' fist—Tom as have cowed so many—there is he fast by the neck and a-groaning, see ye, gossips, loud enough for six, wish I may die else! And the best o' the joke is—the key be gone, as I'm a sinner! So they needs must break the lock to get him out. Big Tom, as have thrashed every man for miles." But here merry voice and laughter ceased and a buxom woman thrust smiling face from the window, and face (like her voice) was kindly when she addressed me:

"What would ye, young master?"

"A little food, mistress," says I, touching my weather-worn hat and pulling it lower over my bruised and swollen features.

"Why come in, master, come in—there be none here but my Roger and Godby the peddler, as knoweth everyone."

So I entered forthwith a small, snug chamber, and seating myself in the darkest corner, acknowledged the salutations of the two men while the good-looking woman, bustling to and fro, soon set before me a fine joint of roast beef with bread and ale, upon which I incontinent fell to.

The two men sat cheek by jowl at the farther end of the table, one a red-faced, lusty fellow, the other, a small, bony man who laughed and ate and ate and laughed and yet contrived to talk all the while, that it was a wonder to behold.

"Was you over to Lamberhurst way, master?" says he to me, all at once.

"Aye!" I nodded, busy with the beef.

"Why then, happen ye saw summat o' the sport they had wi' the big gipsy i' the pillory—him as 'saulted my Lady Brandon and nigh did for her ladyship's coz?"

"Aye," says I again, bending over my platter.

"'Tis ill sport to bait a poor soul as be helpless, I think—nay I know, for I've stood there myself ere now, though I won't say as I didn't clod this fellow once or twice to-day myself—I were a rare clodder in my time, aha! Did you clod this big rogue, master?"

"No!"

"And wherefore not?"

"Because," says I, cutting myself more beef, "I happened to be that same rogue." Here Roger the landlord stared, his buxom wife shrank away, and even the talkative peddler grew silent awhile, viewing me with his shrewd, merry eyes.

"Aha!" says he at last, "'Twas you, was it?"

"It was!"

"And why must ye 'sault a noble lady?"

"I never did!"

"Gregory swears to it."

"Gregory's a liar!"

"Which is true enough—so he be!" nodded the landlord.

"And a cruel-hard man!" added his wife. "But Lord, young master, they do ha' used ye ill—your poor face, all bruised and swole it be!"

"Which it be!" nodded Roger. "Likewise cut! Which be ill for 'ee though—like Godby here—I won't say but what I moughtn't ha' took a heave at ye, had I been there, it being nat'ral-like to heave things at such times, d'ye see?"

"Very natural!" says I.

"And then why," questioned the little peddler, "why break open the wicket-gate?"

"To get in!"

"Aha!" quoth Godby the peddler, winking roguish eye, "On the prigging lay perchance, cull, or peradventure the mill-ken? Speak plain, pal, all's bowmon!"

"I'm no flash cull," says I, "neither buzz, file, mill-ken nor scamperer."

"Mum, pal, mum! I'm no more flash than you be, though I've no love for the harmon-becks as Roger here will tell 'ee. A peddler be I and well liked—wish I may swing else! Aye, well beloved is kind Godby, specially by wenches and childer—aha, many's the yard o' riband and lace, the garters, pins, ballads, gingerbread men, pigs and elephants, very fair gilt, as they've had o' kind Godby, and all for love! And yet, plague and perish it—here's me warned off my pitch, here's me wi' the damned catchpolls on my heels, and all along o' this same Gregory Bragg—rot him!"

"As to all that, I know not," says I, "but this I'll swear to, you are a man, Godby the peddler, and one with a bold and kindly heart inside you."

"How so?" he questioned, his bright eyes all of a twinkle. "How so, my bully boy?"

"That pannikin of water."

"Which you didn't get, my cock's-body lad!"

"Which you were man enough to bring me."

"Which Tom Button did ye out of!"

"Which you knocked him down for!"

"Which is Gospel-true, Roger and Cicely, 'twas a neat throw. Tom bumped heavy—aye, uncommon flat were Tom, let me eat worms else!"

"For all of the which," says I, cutting more beef, "I ask you now to drink a stoup of ale with me."

"Wi' all my heart!" cries the peddler.

"Then," says I, laying my money on the table, "let us all drink in fellowship, for ale, like fellowship, is a goodly thing and good things be rare in this world!"

"And that's true, o' conscience!" smiled the buxom Cicely.

"And ye'll find no better brew than our own!" quoth Roger.

"And that I'll swear to!" laughed the peddler. "Cram me wi' spiders else!"

So the good ale was brought and Godby, lifting his tankard, smiled and nodded over the creamy foam:

"Here's a griping colic to every catchpoll, harmon-beck and the like vermin 'twixt this and London town!" says he, and lifted the ale to his lips; but suddenly he sat it down untasted and rose: "Friends, I'm took!" quoth he. "See yonder!" As he spake the narrow doorway was darkened and two rough fellows entered, and each bore a formidable bludgeon.

"Aye," says one, a big, surly-voiced fellow, "here be us, peddler, and there be you, so best come easy—an' no tricks, mind!"

"Then easy does it, lads!" says Godby, no whit abashed. "No lamb could come milder than Godby, aye lambs, doves and babes is roaring lions compared wi' Godby—so easy does it. What is't this time, codgers?"

"Fower hours i' the pillory, three i' the stocks, and a month in Maidstone jail and that's what!"

"And enough too!" growled Roger the landlord, clenching hairy fist and glancing furtively towards a rusty sword suspended above the hearth.

"Let be, Roger—I'm a lamb!" sighed the peddler. "And I wouldn't ha' you in trouble by me—besides this room o' yourn, though snug, ain't fit for struggling nor striving! So, friends—good-bye!" Then he turned away between his two captors, but as he did so, his bright eyes for one moment met mine and in his look I read appeal.

Now scarce were they gone when I got me to my feet, whereat the landlord, Roger, did the like:

"What's to do?" he questioned, glancing yearningly from me to the rusty sword.

"Why now," says I, counting out my reckoning, "bide you here—for your good wife's sake."

"Aye, do now, Roger!" she pleaded. "'Twould be ruination to us!"

"Moreover," says I, reaching for my cudgel, "they are but two, so bide you here." Then I stepped forth of the tavern and very soon came up with the two fellows, their prisoner walking betwixt them meekly enough. But, as I approached, they halted all three.

"And what be you after?" demanded the surly fellow.

"You!"

"And what d'ye want of us—hey?"

"Your prisoner!"

"Ha! And what for him?"

"I've a mind to him!"

"O! Ye have, eh?"

"I have. Do I get him?"

"Be curst for a black, ugly rogue."

"That's no answer!"

"'Tis all you'll get o' we, save 'ard knocks!" says the man, spitting in his hand and taking firm grip of his bludgeon.

"Why then I must take him!" says I.

"Try and be damned!" roared the fellow. "Ha—look alive, Jem!" And whirling up his staff, he made at me amain; but I sprang aside and, as his rush carried him past, my answering stroke caught him fairly 'twixt wrist and elbow and his cudgel spun harmlessly into the hedge; breathing curses he sought to close with me, but I, keeping my distance, smote him (very blithely) how and where I would until he (his arm useless), misliking my bludgeon-play and reading no mercy in my look, very wisely betook him to his heels. Hereupon I turned to find the little peddler sitting astride his man's neck and his fist against the fellow's nose:

"Smell it, Job!" he was saying. "Smell it, lad, 'tis the fist of a man as would be a-groping for your liver if it weren't for the respect I do bear your old mother—skin me else! So thank your old mother, lad, first as you've got a liver and second for a-saving o' that same liver. And now, get up, Job—begone, Job, arter your pal, and tell folk as kind Godby, though sore tempted, never so much as set finger on your liver, and all along o' your good old mother—away wi' ye!" So the fellow got him to his legs (mighty rueful) and sped away after his comrade.

"Pal," says the little peddler, reaching out and grasping my hand, "here's full quittance for that pannikin o' water as you never got! And now—what's the word?"

"Now," says I, "let us go back and drink the good ale!"

"Pal," quoth the peddler, with a flash of white teeth, "wi' all my heart!"

Thus we presently returned to the little tavern and found there Roger the landlord, the rusty sword in one brawny fist, his wife holding fast to the other. At sight of us he dropped the weapon and roared joyously, and Cicely, running to us, clasped our hands in hearty welcome. So we sat down all four, and while we quaffed the ale Godby described our late encounter with great exactness.

"Pal," says he thereafter, reaching across the table to grip my hand again, "what might your name be?"

"Martin."

"Why then, Martin, have ye any friends or kin?"

"None!"

"No more have I, and look now, this Kent country is no fit place for you or me arter to-day! So what I says is, lets you and me pad it, pal—the road, lad—the good high-road, aha! How say ye, Martin?"

"No!"

"Why no, pal?"

"Because, after to-night, if I chance to be neither dead nor in prison, I'm for shipboard."

"'Tis an ill life, pal!"

"Why, life is an ill thing!" says I.

"Nay, look'ee, Martin, life may be worth whiles now and then—aye, lad, there be times, good times."

"What times?"

"Well, Martin, to lie snug 'neath hedge o' star-time, when your fire's low an' the stars peep down through leaves at a man—wink, they go, and wink, wink, till, watching 'em, a man forgets his troubles awhile and knows something o' content. Aha, many's the time o' star-time they have winked me and my troubles asleep. Then there's wakings o' bird-time, wi' the sun up, dew a-sparkle and life calling within ye and without, and the birds—O the birds, Martin—a-filling the world wi' brave songs o' hope new-born like the day! Ah, many's the morn the birds ha' waked me and I as merry as any grig—Lord love their beaks and wings! There's hay-time o' the evening full o' soft, sweet smells—aye, sweet as lad's first kiss; there's wheat-time at noon wi' the ears a-rustle and the whitt-whitt o' scythe and whetstone; there's night, Martin, and the long, black road dipping and a-winding, but wi' the beam o' light beyond, lad—the good light as tells o' journey done, of companionship and welcomes and belike—eyes o' love, with—"

"Lusty ale!" quoth Roger, setting three new-filled pipkins before us. "And none better nor ourn—eh, wife?"

"That I do swear to, Roger!" laughed the peddler, "Choke me else! But now, as to the sea, Martin pal—'tis a dog's life!"

"You know the sea, then?"

"Like my hand, Martin, and all along o' my father's godliness. A fine, big man he was and devout as he was lusty. Having begot me his next duty was to name me, and O pal, name me he did! A name as no raskell lad might live up to, a name as brought me into such troublous faction ashore that he packed me off to sea. And if you ax me what name 'twas, I'll answer ye bold and true—'God-be-here Jenkins,' at your service, though Godby for short and 'twixt friends."

Now the more I saw of this little peddler the better I liked him, so that the hour was late when, having supped excellently well, I rose to take my leave.

"If you must be away, young master," said the buxom Cicely, "don't 'ee forget there be ever a welcome for 'ee at the Hop-pole—eh, Roger?"

"There is so!" nodded the landlord. "Likewise a pipkin of ale and a bite and all gratus to a pal!"

"And look 'ee, Martin my cove," quoth the peddler, grasping my hand, "there be ever and always the good high-road leading on and away to better things, so happen ye should change your mind, seek me here 'twixt this and dawn, if to-morrow ye shall hear o' Godby at the Fox at Spelmonden. So luck go wi' ye, my bien cull."

"And you," says I, "should you be minded to sail with me, go to the Peck-o'-Malt at Bedgbury Cross—the word is 'The Faithful Friend,' and ask for Adam Penfeather."

So I presently stepped forth of the little tavern where I had found such kindliness and, turning from the narrow lane, struck off across the fields.

It was a sweet, warm night, the moon not up as yet, thus as I went I lifted my gaze to the heavens where stars made a glory. And beholding these wondrous fires I needs must recall the little peddler's saying and ponder his "good times"—his "times of stars and birds, of noon and eventide, of welcomes sweet and eyes of love."

And now I was of a sudden filled with a great yearning and passionate desire that I too might know such times. But, as I climbed a stile, my hand by chance came upon the knife at my girdle, and sitting on the stile I drew it forth and fell to handling its broad blade, and, doing so, knew in my heart that such times were not for me, nor ever could be. And sitting there, knife in hand, desire and yearning were lost and 'whelmed in fierce and black despair.



CHAPTER IX

HOW I HAD WORD WITH THE LADY JOAN BRANDON FOR THE THIRD TIME

The moon was well up when, striking out from the gloom of the woods, I reached a wall very high and strong, whereon moss and lichens grew; skirting this, I presently espied that I sought—a place where the coping was gone with sundry of the bricks, making here a gap very apt to escalade; and here, years agone, I had been wont to climb this wall to the furtherance of some boyish prank on many a night such as this. Awhile stood I staring up at this gap, then, seizing hold of massy brickwork, I drew myself up and dropped into a walled garden. Here were beds of herbs well tended and orderly, and, as I went, I breathed an air sweet with the smell of thyme and lavender and a thousand other scents, an air fraught with memories of sunny days and joyous youth, insomuch that I clenched my hands and hasted from the place. Past sombre trees, mighty of girth and branch, I hurried; past still pools, full of a moony radiance, where lilies floated; past marble fauns and dryads that peeped ghost-like from leafy solitudes; past sundial and carven bench, by clipped yew-hedges and winding walks until, screened in shadow, I paused to look upon a great and goodly house; and as I stood there viewing it over from terrace-walk to gabled roof, I heard a distant clock chime ten.

The great house lay very silent and dark, not a light showed save in one lower chamber. So I waited patiently, my gaze on this light, while, ever and anon, the leaves about me stirred in the soft night-wind with a sound like one that sighed mournfully.

Thus stayed I some while; howbeit, the light yet aglow and my patience waning, I stole forward, keeping ever in the shadows, and, ascending the terrace, came where grew ivy, very thick and gnarled, overspreading this wing of the house. Groping amid the leaves I found that I sought—a stout staple deep-driven between the bricks with above this another and yet other again, the which formed a sort of ladder whereby, as a boy, I had been wont to come and go by night or day as I listed.

Forthwith I began to climb by means of these staples and the ivy, until at last my fingers grasped the stone sill of a window; and now, the lattice being open, I contrived (albeit it with much ado) to clamber into the room. It was a fair-sized chamber, and the moonlight, falling athwart the floor, lit upon a great carven bed brave with tapestried hangings. Just now the silken curtains were up-drawn and upon the bed I saw a bundle of garments all ribands, laces and the like, the which, of themselves, gave me sudden pause. From these my gaze wandered to where, against the panelling, hung a goodly rapier complete with girdle and slings, its silver hilt, its guards and curling quillons bright in the moonbeams. So came I and, reaching it down, drew it from the scabbard and saw the blade very bright as it had been well cared for. And graven on the forte of the blade was the Conisby blazon and the legend:

ROUSE ME NOT.

Now as I stood watching the moonbeams play up and down the long blade, I heard the light, quick tread of feet ascending the stairs without and a voice (very rich and sweetly melodious) that brake out a-singing, and the words it sang these:

"A poor soul sat sighing by a green willow tree With hand on his bosom, his head on his knee, Sighing Willow, willow, willow! O willow, willow, willow! And O the green willow my garland shall be!"

Nearer came the singing while I stood, sword in hand, waiting; the song ended suddenly and the sweet voice called:

"O Marjorie, wake me betimes, I must be abroad with the sun to-morrow—good-night, sweet wench!"

I crouched in the curtains of the great bed as the latch clicked and the room filled with the soft glow of a candle; a moment's silence, then:

"O Marjorie, I'll wear the green taffety in the morning. Nay indeed, I'll be my own tirewoman to-night."

The light was borne across the room; then coming softly to the door I closed it and, setting my back against it, leaned there. At the small sound I made she turned and, beholding me, shrank back, and I saw the candlestick shaking in her hand ere she set it down upon the carved press beside her.

"Who is it—who is it?" she questioned breathlessly, staring at my bruised and swollen features.

"A rogue you had dragged lifeless to the pillory!"

"You?" she breathed. "You! And they set you in the pillory? 'Twas by no order of me."

"'Tis no matter, lady, here was just reward for a rogue," says I. "But now I seek Sir Richard—"

"Nay indeed—indeed you shall not find him here."

"That will I prove for myself!" says I, and laid hand on latch.

"Sir," says she in the same breathless fashion, "why will you not believe me? Seek him an you will, but I tell you Sir Richard sailed into the Spanish Main two years since and was lost."

"Lost?" says I, feeling a tremor of apprehension shake me as I met her truthful eyes. "Lost, say you—how lost?"

"He and his ship were taken by the Spaniards off Hispaniola."

"Taken?" I repeated, like one sore mazed. "Taken—off—Hispaniola?" And here, bethinking me of the cruel mockery of it all (should this indeed be so) black anger seized me. "You lie to me!" I cried. "Ha, by God, you lie! An there be aught of justice in heaven then Richard Brandon must be here."

"Who are you?" she questioned, viewing me with the same wide-eyed stare. "Who are you—so fierce, so young, yet with whitened hair, and that trembles at the truth? Who are you—speak?"

"You have lied to save him from me!" I cried. "You lie—ha, confess!" And I strode towards her, the long blade a-glitter in my quivering grasp.

"Would you kill me?" says she, all unflinching and with eyes that never wavered. "Would you murder a helpless maid—Martin Conisby?" The rapier fell to the rug at my feet and lay there, my breath caught, and thus we stood awhile, staring into each other's eyes.

"Martin Conisby is dead!" says I at last.

For answer she pointed to the wall above my head and, looking thither, I saw the picture of a young cavalier, richly habited, who smiled down grey-eyed and gentle-lipped, all care-free youth and gaiety; and beneath this portrait ran the words:

MARTIN CONISBY, LORD WENDOVER. Aetat. 21.

"Madam," quoth I at last, turning my back on the picture, "Yon innocent was whipped to death aboard a Spanish galleass years since, wherefore I, a poor rogue, come seeking his destroyer."

"Sir," says she, clasping her hands and viewing me with troubled eyes, "O sir—whom mean you?"

"One who, having slain the father, sold the son into slavery, to the hell of Spanish dungeon and rowing-bench, to stripes and shame and torment, one the just God hath promised to my vengeance—I mean Richard Brandon."

"Ah—mercy of God—my father! Ah no, no—it cannot be! My father? Sure here is some black mistake."

"Being his daughter you should know 'tis very truth! Being a Brandon you must know of the feud hath cursed and rent our families time out of mind, the bitter faction and bloodshed!"

"Aye!" she murmured, "This I do know."

"Well, madam, five years agone, or thereabouts, my father falsely attainted of treason, died in his prison and I, drugged and trepanned aboard ship, was sold into the plantations, whence few return—and Richard Brandon, enriched by our loss and great at court, dreamed he had made an end o' the Conisbys and that the feud was ended once and for all."

"My lord," says she, proud head upflung, "I deny all this! Such suspicion, so base and unfounded, shameth but yourself. You have dared force your way into my house at dead of night, and now—O now you would traduce my absent father, charging him with shameful crimes—and this to me, his daughter! Enough, I'll hear no more, begone ere I summon my servants and have you driven forth!" and, seizing the bell-rope that hung against the panelling, she faced me, her deep bosom heaving tempestuous, white hands clenched and scorning me with her eyes.

"Ring!" says I, and seated myself in a chair beside her great bed.

"Have you no shame?"

"None, madam, 'twas all whipped out o' me aboard the 'Esmeralda' galleass. Ring, madam! But I go not till I learn, once and for all, if Sir Richard be here or no."

Now at this she loosed the bell-rope very suddenly and, covering her face with her hands, stood thus awhile:

"God pity me!" says she at last in weeping voice. "I may not forget how you saved me from—" Here a tremor seemed to shake her; then she spake again, yet now scarce above a whisper. "Your face hath looked upon me night and morn these two years, and now—O Martin Conisby, were you but the man I dreamed you!"

"I'm a rogue new-broke from slavery!" says I.

"Aye," she cried suddenly, lifting her head and viewing me with new and bitter scorn, "and one that speaketh lies of an absent man!"

"Lies!" quoth I, choking on the word. "Lies, madam? Why then, how cometh my picture here—my coat of arms above the mantel yonder, the Conisby 'scutcheon on your gates? What do you at Conisby Shene?"

Now in her look I saw a sudden doubt, a growing dread, her breath caught and she shrank back to the panelled wall and leaned there, and ever the trouble in her eyes grew. "Well, my lady?" I questioned, "Have ye no answer?"

"'Twas said ... I have heard ... the Conisbys were no more."

"Even so, how came Sir Richard by this, our house?"

"Nay—nay, I—I know little of my father's business—he was ever a silent man and I—have passed my days in London or abroad. But you—ah, tell me—why seek you my father?"

"That is betwixt him and me!"

"Was it—murder? Was it vengeance, my lord?" Here, as I made no answer, she crosses over to me and lays one slender hand on my shoulder; whereat I would have risen but her touch stayed me. "Speak!" says she in a whisper. "Was it his life you sought?" Meeting the look in her deep, soft eyes, I was silent for a while, finding no word, then dumbly I nodded. And now I felt her hand trembling on my shoulder ere it was withdrawn and, looking up, I saw she had clasped her hands and stood with head bowed like one in prayer: "O Martin Conisby," she whispered, "now thank God that in His mercy He hath stayed thee from murder!" So she stood awhile, then, crossing to the carven press, took thence divers papers and set them before me. "Read!" she commanded.

So I examined these papers and found therein indisputable evidence that my journey here was vain indeed, that Sir Richard, sailing westward, had been taken by Spaniards off Hispaniola and carried away prisoner, none knew whither.

And in a while, having read these papers, I laid them by and rising, stumbled towards the open casement.

"Well, my lord?" says she in strange, breathless fashion, "And what now?"

"Why now," says I, wearily, "it seems my vengeance is yet to seek."

"Vengeance?" she cried, "Ah, God pity thee! Doth life hold for thee nought better?"

"Nought!"

"Vengeance is a consuming fire!"

"So seek I vengeance!"

"O Martin Conisby, bethink you! Vengeance is but a sickness of the mind—a wasting disease—"

"So seek I vengeance!"

"For him that questeth after vengeance this fair world can hold nought beside."

"So give me vengeance, nought else seek I of this world!"

"Ah, poor soul—poor man that might be, so do I pity thee!"

"I seek no man's pity."

"But I am a woman, so shall I pity thee alway!"

Now as I prepared to climb through the lattice she, beholding the sword where it yet lay, stooped and, taking it up, sheathed it. "This was thine own once, I've heard," says she. "Take it, Martin Conisby, keep it clean, free from dishonour and leave thy vengeance to God."

"Not so!" says I, shaking my head. "I have my knife, 'tis weapon better suited to my rags!" So saying, I clambered out through the lattice even as I had come. Being upon the terrace, I glanced up to find her leaning to watch me and with the moon bright on her face.

"Live you for nought but vengeance?" she questioned softly.

"So aid me God!" says I.

"So shall I pity thee alway, Martin Conisby!" she repeated, and sighed, and so was gone.

Then I turned, slow of foot, and went my solitary way.



CHAPTER X

HOW I SWORE TO THE BLOOD-BROTHERHOOD

I remember the moon was very bright as, reaching the end of a grassy lane (or rather cart-track) I saw before me a small, snug-seeming tavern with a board over the door, whereon were the words:

YE PECK OF MALT

BY

JOEL BYM.

And looking the place over, from trim, white steps before the door to trim thatched roof, I marvelled at its air of prosperity; for here it stood, so far removed from road and bye-road, so apparently away from all habitation, and so lost and hid by trees (it standing within a little copse) that it was great wonder any customer should ever find his way hither.

The place was very quiet, not a light showed anywhere and the door was fast shut, which was nothing strange, for the hour was late. Stepping up to the door I knocked loudly thereon with my cudgel, at first without effect, but having repeated the summons, a voice from within hailed me gruffly:

"Who knocks?"

"'The Faithful Friend!'" says I. At this, the door swung suddenly open and a lanthorn was thrust into my face, whereupon I fell back a step, dazzled; then gradually, beyond this glare, I made out a dark shape blocking the doorway, a great fellow, so prodigiously hairy of head and face that little was there to see of features, save two round eyes and a great, hooked nose.

"And who d'ye seek, Faithful Friend?" says he.

"Master Adam Penfeather."

"Why then, Faithful Friend, heave ahead!" says he, and, making way for me to enter, closed the door (the which I noticed was mighty stout and strong) and, having locked and bolted it, barred it with a stout iron set into massy sockets in either wall.

"You go mighty secure!" says I.

"Cock," quoth the giant, eyeing me over slowly, "Cock, be ye a cackler—because if so be you do cackle overly here's we as won't love ye no whit, my cock."

"Good!" says I, returning his look. "I seek no man's love!"

"Cock," quoth he, plunging huge fist into his beard and giving it a tug, "I begin to love ye better nor I thought! This way, cock!" Herewith he led me along a wide, flagged passage and up a broad stair with massy, carven handrail; and as I went I saw the place was much bigger than I had deemed it, the walls, too, were panelled, and I judged it had once formed part of a noble house. At last we reached a door whereon the fellow knocked softly, and so presently ushered me into a fair chamber lit by wax candles; and here, seated at a table with papers before him and a pen in his fingers, sat Master Adam Penfeather.

"Ha, shipmate," says he, motioning to a chair, "you be something earlier than I expected. Suffer me to make an end o' this business—sit ye, comrade, sit! As for you, Bo'sun, have up a flask o' the Spanish wine—the black seal!"

"Aye, cap'n!" says he, and seizing a fistful of hair above his eyebrow, strode away, closing the door behind him.

Now beholding Penfeather as he bent to his writing—the lean, aquiline face of him so smooth and youthful in contrast to his silver hair—I was struck by his changed look; indeed he seemed some bookish student rather than the lawless rover I had thought him, despite the pistols at his elbow and the long rapier that dangled at his chair-back; moreover there was about him also an air of latent power I had not noticed ere this.

At length, having made an end of his writing, he got up and stretched himself:

"So, shipmate, art ready to swear the blood-fellowship wi' me?"

"Aye!" says I. "When do we sail?" At this he glanced at me swiftly from the corners of his eyes:

"So ho!" he murmured, pinching his chin. "The wind's changed it seems, you grow eager—and wherefore?"

"'Tis no matter!"

"Shipmate," says he, shaking his head, "an we sail as brothers and comrades there must be never a secret betwixt us—speak!"

"As ye will!" quoth I, leaning back in my chair. "I learn then you are sailing as master in a ship bound for the Main in quest of Sir Richard Brandon lost off Hispaniola two years agone. Sir Richard Brandon is the man I have sought ever since I broke out of the hell he sold me into. Now look'ee, Adam Penfeather," says I, springing to my feet and grasping his arm, "look'ee now—put me in the way of meeting this man, aid me to get my hand on this man and I am yours—aye, body and soul—to the end o' things, and this I swear!"

While I spake thus, my voice hoarse with passion, my fingers clutching his arm, Penfeather stood pinching his chin and watching me beneath his black brows; when I had ended he turned and falls a-pacing to and fro across the room as it had been the narrow poop of a ship.

"Ah—I know you now, my lord!" says he, pausing suddenly before me. "As the sailor-man who watched you as you lay a-groaning in your sleep outside the Conisby Arms, I guessed you one o' the Conisby breed by your ring, and as one born and bred here in Kent I mind well the adage, 'To hate like a Brandon and revenge like a Conisby,' and by God, my lord, you are a true Conisby, it seemeth! Vengeance!" says he, his thin features grown sharp and austere, "Ah! I have seen much and overmuch of it aboard lawless craft and among the wild islands of the Caribbees. I have seen the devilish cruelties of Spaniard, Portugal, and the red horrors of Indian vengeance—but, for cold, merciless ferocity, for the vengeance that dieth not, biding its time and battening on poisonous hate, it needeth your man o' noble birth, your gentleman o' quality!" Here he turned his back and paced slowly to the end of the room; when he faced me again his austere look was gone, in its stead was the grimly whimsical expression of the mariner, as I had seen him first.

"Damme!" says I, scowling, "Was it to read me homilies that you had me here?"

"Aha, shipmate," says he with rueful smile, "there spake the young divine, the excellent divinity student who committed a peccadillo long years agone and, sailing to the Golden West, gave place to one Adam Penfeather a sailor-man—as you shall hear tell of at St. Kitt's, Tortuga, Santa Catalina and a score o' places along the Main. As to yourself, shipmate, if 'tis only vengeance ye seek, vengeance let it be, though, when all's done, 'tis but wind—hist! Here cometh the Bo'sun—come in, Jo lad, come in! 'Twas trusty Joel Bym here gave me my first lesson in navigation—eh, Jo?"

"Aye, Cap'n," growled the hairy giant, "by cock, them was the days, a fair wind, a quick eye an' no favour, aye, them was the days, by cock's-body!" So saying, he placed a flask of wine on the table, together with a curious silver cup, and (at a sign from Penfeather) left us together.

"And now, comrade," says Penfeather, filling the goblet, "draw up your chair and do as I do."

And now as we sat facing each other (across the table) Penfeather turns back his left sleeve and, whipping out a knife, nicked himself therewith on the wrist and squeezed thence a few drops of blood into the wine; which done, he passed the knife to me and I (though misliking the extravagance of the thing) nevertheless did the same.

"Martin," says he, "give me your hand—so! Now swear as I do!" And thus, clasping each other's hands, we swore the oath of brotherhood; and this as followeth, viz."

(1) To keep ever each other's counsel.

(2) To aid each other in all things against all men soever.

(3) To cherish and comfort each other in every adversity.

(4) To be faithful each to each unto the death.

Thereafter, at his command, I drank of the wine wherein our blood was mingled and he did the like.

"And now," says he, leaning back in his chair and viewing me with his pensive smile, "since we be brothers and comrades sworn, how d'ye like me now?"

"Better than I did," says I, speaking on impulse, "for sure you are the strangest picaroon that ever cheated the gallows."

"Ah," says he, pinching his chin, "an I am neither hanged nor murdered you shall one day find me a worshipful magistrate, Martin, Justice o' the Peace and quorum—custos rotulorum and the rest on't, there my ambition lies. As for you, Martin, Lord Wendover, there is your enemy, ha?—bloody vengeance and murder and what beside?"

"That is mine own concern!" I retorted angrily. "And look 'ee, since comrades we are, you will forget who and what I am!"

"Why so I have, Martin, so I have. Art a poor, destitute rogue that might be a man and rich but for this vengeful maggot i' thy brain. Howbeit thou'rt my comrade sworn and brother-in-arms and as such I shall trust thee—to the death, Martin."

"And shall find me worthy, Adam—despite thy curst tongue."

"Death is an ill thing, Martin!"

"Is it?" says I, and laughed.

"Aye," he nodded, "an ill thing to him that hath ambitions above the brute. See here!" Unbuttoning his doublet he showed me a shirt of fine chain-mail beneath his linen. "'Twill turn any point ever forged and stop a bullet handsomely, as I do know."

"Why, sure," says I, a little scornful, "you avowed yourself a cautious man—"

"True, Martin, I have another shirt the like o' this for you. And as for caution, I have need, d'ye see, comrade. The arrow that flieth by day is an ill enough thing, but the knife that stabbeth i' the dark is worse. This shirt hath turned death thrice already—once i' the breast here and twice 'twixt the shoulders. I am a man marked for death, Martin, murder creepeth at my heels, it hath dogged me overseas and found me here in Kent at last, it seems. And, comrade, henceforth the steel that smiteth me shall smite you also, belike."

"And why is your life sought thus?"

"By reason of a secret I bear about me; wherefore (saving only my good friend Nicholas Frant who ... perished) I have ever been a solitary man walking alone and distrustful of my fellows. For, Martin, I have here the secret of a treasure that hath been the dream and hope of roving adventurers along the Main this many a year—a treasure beyond price. Men have sought it vainly, have striven and fought, suffered and died for it, have endured plague, battle, shipwreck, famine, have died screaming 'neath Indian tortures, languished in Spanish dungeon and slaveship, and all for sake of Bartlemy's Treasure. And of all that ever sought it, but one man hath ever seen this treasure, and I am that man, Martin. And this treasure is so marvellous well hid that without me it shall lie unfound till the trump of doom. But now, since we are brethren and comrades, needs must I share with thee the treasure and the secret of it."

"No, no, Adam!" says I. "Keep it to yourself, I'll none of it."

"Share and share!" says he. "'Tis the law of the Coast."

"None the less I want nought of it."

"'Tis the law," he repeated, "and moreover with such vast wealth a man shall buy anything in this world—even vengeance, Martin. Look'ee now, here's the secret of our treasure." Hereupon he thrust his hand into his breast and drew out a small oilskin packet or bag, suspended about his lean throat by a thin steel chain, and from this he drew forth a small roll of parchment.

"Here 'tis, Martin," says he softly, "here's that so many lusty men have perished for—not much to look at, shipmate, torn, d'ye see and stained, but here's wealth, Martin, fame, honours, all the vices and all the evils, and chief among 'em—vengeance!"

So saying, he unrolled the small scrap of parchment, and holding it before me, I saw it was a rough chart.

"Take it, Martin, and study it the while I tell you my story."



CHAPTER XI

ADAM PENFEATHER, HIS NARRATIVE

"Mine is a strange, wild story, Martin, but needs must I tell it and in few words as may be. Fifteen years agone (or thereabouts) I became one of that league known as the Brotherhood of the Coast and swore comradeship with one Nicholas Frant, a Kent man, even as I. Now though I was full young and a cautious man, yet, having a natural hatred of Spaniards and their ways, I wrought right well against them, and was mighty diligent in many desperate affrays against their ships and along the Coast. 'Twas I (and my good comrade Nick Frant) with sixteen lusty lads took sea in an open pinnace and captured the great treasure galleon 'Dolores del Principe' off Carthagena, and what with all this, Martin, and my being blessed with some education and a gift of adding two and two together, I got me rapid advancement in the Brotherhood until—well, shipmate, I that am poor and solitary was once rich and with nigh a thousand bully fellows at command. And then it was that I fell in with that arch-devil, that master rogue whose deeds had long been a terror throughout the Main, a fellow more bloody than any Spaniard, more treacherous than any Portugal, and more cruel than any Indian—Inca, Mosquito, Maya or Aztec, and this man an Englishman, and one of birth and breeding, who hid his identity under the name of Bartlemy. I met him first in Tortuga where we o' the Brotherhood lay, six stout ships and nigh four hundred men convened for an expedition against Santa Catalina, and this for two reasons, first, because 'twas a notable rich city, and second, to rescue certain of the Brotherhood that lay there waiting to be burnt at the next auto-de-fe. Well, Martin, 'tis upon a certain evening that this Bartlemy comes aboard my ship and with him his mate, by name Tressady. And never was greater difference than 'twixt these two, Tressady being a great, wild fellow with a steel hook in place of his left hand, d'ye see, and Bartlemy a slender, dainty-seeming, fiendly-smiling gentleman, very nice as to speech and deportment and clad in the latest mode, from curling periwig to jewelled shoe-buckles.

"'Captain Penfeather,' says he, 'Your most dutiful, humble—ha, let me parish but here is curst reek o' tar!' with which, Martin, he claps a jewelled pomander to the delicate nose of him. 'You've heard of me, I think, Captain,' says he, 'and of my ship, yonder, the "Ladies' Delight?"' I told him I had, Martin, bluntly and to the point, whereat he laughs and bows and forthwith proffers to aid us against Santa Catalina, the which I refused forthwith. But my council of captains, seeing his ship was larger than any we possessed and exceeding well armed and manned, overruled me, and the end of it was we sailed, six ships of the Brotherhood and this accursed pirate.

"Well, Martin, Santa Catalina fell according to my plans, and the Governor and Council agreeing to pay ransom, I drew off my companies, and camped outside the walls of the town till they should collect the money. Now the women of this place were exceeding comely, Martin, in especial the Governor's lady, and upon the second night was sudden outcry and uproar within the city, whereupon I marched into the place forthwith and found this curst Bartlemy and his rogues, grown impatient, were at their devil's work. Hastening to the Governor's house I found it gutted and him dragged from his bed and with the life gashed out of him—aye, Martin, torn body and throat, d'ye see, as by the fangs of some great beast! That was the first time I saw what a steel hook may do! As for this poor gentleman's lady, she was gone. Hereupon, we o' the Brotherhood fell upon these pirate rogues and fought them by light o' the blazing houses (for they had fired the city), and I, thus espying the devil Bartlemy, met him point to point. He was very full o' rapier tricks, but so was I, Martin (also I was younger), and winged him sore and had surely ended him, but that Tressady and divers others got him away, and what with the dark night and the woods that lie shorewards he, together with some few of his crew, got them back aboard his ship, the "Ladies' Delight," and so away; but twelve of his rogues we took (beyond divers we slew in fight) and those twelve I saw hanged that same hour. A week later we sailed for Tortuga with no less than ninety and one thousand pieces of eight for our labour, but I and those with me never had the spending of a single piece, Martin, for we ran into a storm such as I never saw the like of even in those seas. Well, we ran afore it for three days and its fury nothing abating all this time I never quit the deck, but I had been wounded, and on the third night, being fevered and outworn, turned in below. I was awakened by Nick Frant roaring in my ear, for the tempest was very loud and fierce:

"'Adam!' cried he, 'We're lost, every soul and the good money! we've struck a reef, Adam, and 'tis the end and O the good money!' Hereupon I climbed 'bove deck, the vessel on her beam ends and in desperate plight and nought to be seen i' the dark save the white spume as the seas broke over us. None the less I set the crew to cutting away her masts and heaving the ordnance overboard (to lighten her thereby), but while this was doing comes a great wave roaring out of the dark and dashing aboard us whirled me up and away, and I, borne aloft on that mighty, hissing sea, strove no more, doubting not my course was run. So, blinded, choking, I was borne aloft and then, Martin, found myself adrift in water calm as any millpond—a small lagoon, and spying through the dark a grove of palmetto trees presently managed to climb ashore, more dead than alive; and, lying there, I prayed—a thing I had not done for many a year. As the dawn came I saw the great wave had hurled me over the barrier reef into this small lagoon, and beyond the reef lay all that remained of my good ship. I was yet viewing this dolorous sight (and much cast down for the loss of my companions, in especial my sworn friend Nicholas Frant) when I heard a sound behind me and turning about, espied a woman, and in this woman's face (fair though it was) I read horror and sadness beyond tears, and yet I knew her for the same had been wife to the murdered governor of Santa Catalina.

"'Go back!' says she in Spanish, pointing to the surf that thundered beyond the reef. 'Go back! Here is the devil—the sea hath more mercy—go back whiles ye may!' And now she checked all at once and falls a-shivering, for a voice reached us, a man's voice a-singing fair to hear, and the song he sang was this,

'Hey cheerly O and cheerly O And cheerly come sing O! While at the mainyard to and fro—

and knowing this voice (to my cost) I looked around for some weapon, since I had none and was all but naked, and whipping up a jagged and serviceable stone, stood awaiting him with this in my fist. And down the beach he comes, jocund and debonair in his finery, albeit something pale by reason of excess and my rapier work. And now I come to look at you, Martin, he was just such another as you as to face and feature, though lacking your beef and bone. Now he beholding me where I stood, flourishes off his belaced hat and, making me a bow, comes on smiling.

"'Ah,' says he gaily, ''tis Captain Penfeather of the Brotherhood, a-collogueing with my latest wife! Is she not a pearl o' dainty woman-ware, Captain, a sweet and luscious piece, a passionate, proud beauty worth the taming—ha, Captain? And she is tamed, see you. To your dainty knees, wench—down!' Now though he smiled yet and spake her gentle, she, bowing proud head, sank to her knees, crouching on the ground before him, while he looked down on her, the devil in his eyes and his jewelled fingers toying with the dagger in his girdle, a strange dagger with a hilt wrought very artificially in the shape of a naked woman—"

"How," says I, leaning across the table, "A woman, Penfeather?"

"Aye, shipmate! So I stood mighty alert, my eyes on this dagger, being minded to whip it into his rogue's heart as chance might offer. 'I wonder,' says he to this poor lady, 'I wonder how long I shall keep thee, madonna, a week—a month—a year? Venus knoweth, for you amuse me, sweet. Rise, rise, dear my lady, my Dolores of Joy, rise and aid me with thy counsel, for here hath this misfortunate clumsy Captain fool blundered into our amorous paradise, this tender Cyprian isle sacred to our passion. Yet here is he profaning our joys with his base material presence. How then shall we rid ourselves of this offence? The knife—this lover o' men of mine? The bullet? Yet 'tis a poor small naked rogue and in two days cometh my 'Ladies' Delight' and Tressady with his hook. See, my Dolores, for two days he shall be our slave and thereafter, for thy joy, shall show thee how to die, my sweet—torn 'twixt pimento trees or Tressady's hook—thou shalt choose the manner of't. And now, unveil, unveil, my goddess of the isle—so shall—' Ha, Martin! My stone took him 'neath the ear, and as he swayed reeling to the blow, lithe and swift as any panther this tortured woman sprang, and I saw the flash of steel ere it was buried in his breast. Even then he didn't fall, but, staggering to a pimento tree, leans him there and falls a-laughing, a strange, high-pitched, gasping laugh, and as he laughed thus, I saw the silver haft of the dagger that was a woman leap and quiver in his breast. Then, laughing yet, he, never heeding me, plucked and levelled sudden pistol, and when the smoke cleared the brave Spanish lady lay dead upon the sands.

"'A noble piece, Captain!' says he, gasping for breath, and then to her, 'Art gone, my goddess—I—follow thee!' And now he sinks to his knees and begins to crawl where she lay, but getting no further than her feet (by reason of his faintness) he clasps her feet and kisses them, and laying his head upon them—closes his eyes. 'Penfeather!' he groans, 'my treasure—hidden—dagger—'

"Then I came very hastily and raised his head (for I had oft heard talk o' this treasure), and in that moment he died. So I left them lying and coming to the seaboard sat there a great while watching the break o' the seas on what was left o' the wreck, yet seeing it not. I sat there till noon, Martin, until, driven by thirst and hunger and heat of sun, I set off to seek their habitation, for by their looks I judged them well-fed and housed. But, and here was the marvel, Martin, seek how I might I found no sign of any hut or shelter save that afforded by nature (as caves and trees), and was forced to satisfy my cravings with such fruits as flourished in profusion, for this island, Martin, is a very earthly paradise. That night, the moon being high and bright, I came to that stretch of silver sand beside the lagoon where they lay together rigid and pale and, though I had no other tool but his dagger and a piece o' driftwood, made shift to bury them 'neath the great pimento tree that stood beside the rock, and both in the same grave. Which done, I betook me to a dry cave hard by a notable fall of water that plungeth into a lake, and there passed the night. Next day, having explored the island very thoroughly, and dined as best I might on shell-fish that do abound, I sat me down where I might behold the sea and fell to viewing of this silver-hilted dagger."

"The which was shaped like to a woman!" says I.

"Aye, Martin. And now, bethinking me of Bartlemy's dying words anent this same dagger, and of the tales I had heard full oft along the Main regarding this same Bartlemy and his hidden treasure, I fell to handling this dagger, turning and twisting it this way and that. And suddenly, shipmate, I felt the head turn upon the shoulders 'twixt the clasping hands; turn and turn until it came away and showed a cavity, and in this cavity a roll of parchment, and that parchment none other than this map with the cryptogram, the which I could make nought of.

"Now as I sat thus, studying this meaningless jumble of words, I of a sudden espied a man below me on the reef, a wild, storm-tossed figure, his scanty clothing all shreds and tatters, and as he went seeking of shell-fish that were plenteous enough, I knew him for my sworn comrade, Nick Frant. And then, Martin, I did strange thing, for blood-brothers though we were, I made haste (and all of a tremble) to slip back this map into its hiding-place, which done, I arose, hailing my comrade and went to meet him joyously enough. And no two men in the world more rejoiced than we as we clasped hands and embraced each other as only comrades may. It seemed the hugeous sea that had caught me had caught him likewise and hurled him, sore bruised, some mile to the south of the reef. So now I told him of the deaths of Bartlemy and the poor lady, yet Martin (and this was strange) I spoke nothing of knife or treasure; I told him of the expectation I had of the pirate's ship return, and yet I never once spake o' the map and chart. And methinks the secret cast a shadow betwixt us that grew ever deeper, for as the days passed and no sail appeared, there came a strangeness, an unlove betwixt us that grew until one day we fell to open quarrel, disputation and deadly strife, and the matter no more than a dead man's shirt (and that ragged) that had come ashore. And we (being in rags and the sun scorching) each claimed this shirt, and from words came blows. He had his seaman's knife and I Bartlemy's accursed dagger, and so we fought after the manner of the buccaneers, his leg bound fast to mine, and Martin, though he was a great fellow and strong and wounded me sore, in the end I got in a thrust under the armpit and he fell a-dying, and I with him. Then I (seeing death in his eyes, Martin) clasped him in my arms and kissed him and besought him not to die, whereat he smiled. 'Adam!' says he, 'Why Adam, lad—' and so died.

"Then I took that accursed dagger, wet with my comrade's life-blood, and hurled it from me, and so with many tears and lamentations I presently buried poor Nick Frant in the sands, and lay there face down upon his grave wetting it with my tears and groaning there till nightfall. But all next day, Martin (though my heart yearned to my slain friend) all next day I spent seeking and searching for the dagger had killed him. And as the sun set, I found it. Thereafter I passed my days (since the pirate ship came not, doubtless owing to the late tempest) studying the writing on the chart here, yet came no nearer a solution, though my imagination was inflamed by mention of diamonds, rubies and pearls, as ye may see written here for yourself. So the time passed till one day at dawn I beheld a great ship, her mizzen and fore-topmasts gone, standing in for my island, and as she drew nearer, I knew her at last for that accursed pirate ship called "Ladies' Delight." Being come to anchor within some half-mile or so, I saw a boat put off for the reef, and lying well hid I watched this boat, steered by a knowing hand, pass through the reef by a narrow channel and so enter the lagoon. Now in this boat were six men and at the rudder sat Tressady, and I saw his hook flash in the sun as he sprang ashore. Having beached their boat, they fell to letting off their calivers and pistols and hallooing:

"'Oho, Captain!' they roared, 'Bartlemy, ahoy!' And this outcry maintained they for some while. But none appearing to answer, they seemed to take counsel together, and thereafter set off three and three, shouting as they went. And now it seemed they knew no more of Bartlemy's hiding-place than I, whereat I rejoiced greatly. So lay I all that forenoon watching their motions and hearing their outcries now here, now there, until, marvelling at the absence of Bartlemy, they sat down all six upon the spit of sand whereby I lay hid and fell to eating and drinking, talking the while, though too low for me to hear what passed. But all at once they seemed to fall to disputation, Tressady and a small, dark fellow against the four, and thereafter to brawl and fight, though this was more butchery than fight, Martin, for Tressady shoots down two ere they can rise, and leaping up falls on the other two with his hook! So with aid from the small, dark fellow they soon have made an end o' their four companions, and leaving them lying, come up the beach and sitting below the ledge of rock whereon I lay snug hidden, fell to talk.

"'So, Ben, camarado mio, we be committed to it now! Since these four be dead and all men well-loved by Bartlemy, needs must Bartlemy follow 'em!'

"'Aye!' says the man Ben, 'when we have found him. Though Bartlemy's a fighting man!'

"'And being a man can die, Ben. And he once dead we stand his heirs—you and I, Ben, I and you!'

"'Well and good!' says Ben. 'But for this treasure where lieth it, and for that matter, Roger, where is Bartlemy?'

"'Both to find, Ben, so let us set about it forthwith.' The which they did, Martin; for three days they sought the island over and I watching 'em. On the third day, as they are sitting 'neath the great pimento tree I have mentioned (and I watching close by) Tressady sits up all at once.

"'Ben!' says he, 'What be yon?' and he pointed to a mound of sand hard by.

"'Lord knoweth!' says Ben.

"'Yon's been digging!' says Tressady, 'and none so long since!'

"'Aye,' said Ben, 'and now what?'

"'Now,' says Tressady, 'let us dig likewise.'

"'Aye, but what with?' says Ben.

"'Our fingers!' says Tressady. So there and then they fell to digging, casting up the loose sand with their two hands, dog-fashion, and I, watching, turned my head that I might not see.

"'Ha!' says Tressady, in a while, 'Here is foul reek, Ben, foul reek.'

"'Right curst!' says Ben, and then uttered a great, hoarse cry. And I, knowing what they had come upon, kept my face turned away. ''Tis she!' says Ben in a whisper.

"'Aye, and him!' says Tressady. 'Faugh! Man, 'tis ill thing but needs must—his dagger, Ben, his dagger.'

"'Here's no dagger,' says Ben. 'Here's empty sheath but no steel in't!'

"''Tis fallen out!' says Tressady in a strangled voice. 'Seek, Ben, seek!' So despite the horror of the thing, they sought, Martin, violating death and careless of corruption they sought, and all the time the thing they sought was quivering in this right hand.

"'Ben,' says Tressady, when they were done. 'Ben—how came he dead—how?'

"'Who shall say, Roger? Mayhap they did each other's business.'

"'Why then—where's the dagger o' the woman—the silver goddess—where? And how came they buried?'

"'Aye, there's the rub, Roger!'

"'Why,' says Tressady, 'look'ee, Ben, 'tis in my mind we're not alone on this island—'

"'And who should be here, Roger?'

"'The man that slew our Captain!' Here there was silence awhile, then the man Ben arose and spat.

"'Faugh!' says he. 'Come away, Roger, ere I stifle—come, i' the devil's name!' So they went and I, lying hid secure, watched them out of sight.

"Now when they were gone I took counsel with myself, for here were two desperate, bloody rogues, very well armed, and here was I, a solitary man with nought to my defence save for Nick's knife and the silver-hilted dagger, which was heavy odds, Martin, as you'll agree. Now I have ever accounted myself a something timid man, wherefore in cases of desperate need and danger I have been wont to rely on my wit rather than weapons, on head rather than hands. So now as I looked upon this cursed dagger wherewith I had slain my poor friend, beholding this evil silver woman whose smile seemed verily to allure men to strife and bloodshed—the end of it was I stole from my lurking-place and set the dagger amid the gnarled roots of the great pimento tree, where it might have slipped from dying fingers, and so got me back into hiding. And sure enough in a while comes the big man Tressady a-stealing furtive-fashion and falls to hunting both in the open grave and round about it but, finding nothing, steals him off again. Scarce was he out of eye-shot, Martin, than cometh the little dark fellow Ben, who likewise fell to stealthy search, grubbing here and there on hands and knees, yet with none better fortune than his comrade. But of a sudden he gives a spring and, stooping, stands erect with Bartlemy's dagger in his hand. Now scarce had he found it than comes Tressady creeping from where he had lain watching.

"'Ha, Ben!' says he jovially. 'How then, lad, how then? Hast found what we sought? Here's luck, Ben, here's luck! Aye, by cock, 'tis your fortune to find it and your fortune's my fortune, eh, Ben—us being comrades, Ben?'

"'Aye,' says Ben, turning the dagger this way and that.

"'Ha' ye come on the chart, Ben, ha' ye found the luck in't Ben?'

"'Stay, Roger, I've but just picked it up—'

"'And was coming to your comrade with it, eh, Ben—share and share—eh, Benno—Bennie?'

"'Aye,' says Ben, staring down at the thing, 'but 'twas me as found it, Roger!'

"'And what then, lad, what then?'

"'Why then, Roger, since I found it, 'tis mine,' says he gripping the dagger in quivering fist and glancing up sideways.

"'Hilt and blade, Ben!'

"'And the chart, Roger?'

"'Aye, and the chart, Ben!' says Tressady, coming a pace nearer, and I saw his hook glitter.

"'And the treasure, Roger!' says Ben, making little passes in the air to see the blue gleam of the steel.

"'All yours, Ben all yours, and what's yours is mine, according to oath, Ben, to oath! But come, Ben, you hold the secret o' the treasure in your fist—the silver goddess. Come, the chart, lad, out wi' the chart and Bartlemy's jewels are ours—pearls, Ben—diamonds, rubies—aha, come, find the chart—let your comrade aid ye, lad—'

"'Stand back!' says Ben and whips a pistol from his belt. 'Look'ee, Roger, says he, 'I found the dagger without ye and I'll find the chart—stand back!'

"'Why here's ill manners to a comrade, Ben ill manners, sink me—but as ye will. Only out wi' the chart and let's go seek the treasure, Ben.'

"'D'ye know the secret o' this thing, Roger?'

"'Not I, Ben!'

"'Why then must I break it asunder. Hand me yon piece o' of rock,' says Ben, pointing to a heavy stone that chanced to be near.

"'Stay, Ben lad, 'twere pity to crush the silver woman, but if you will, you will Ben—take a hold!' So saying, Tressady picked up the stone, but, as his comrade reached to take it, let it fall, whereupon Ben stooped for it and in that moment Tressady was on him. And then—ha, Martin, I heard the man Ben scream, and as he writhed, saw Tressady's hook at work ... the man screamed but once ... and then, wiping the hook on his dead comrade's coat he took up the dagger and began to unscrew the head. But now, Martin, methought 'twas time for me to act if I meant to save my life, for I had nought but Nick Frant's knife, while within Tressady's reach lay the dead man's pistols and divers musquetoons and fusees on the beach behind him, which put me to no small panic lest he shoot me ere I could come at him with my knife. Thus, as I lay watching, I took counsel with myself how I might lure him away from these firearms wherewith he might hunt me down and destroy me at his ease; and the end of it was I started up all at once and, leaning down towards him, shook the parchment in his face. 'Ha, Tressady!' says I, 'Is this the thing you've murdered your comrade for?' Now at this Tressady sprang back, to stare from me to the thing in my hand, Martin, and then—ha, then with a wild-beast roar he sprang straight at me with his hook—even as I had judged he would. As for me, I turned and ran, making for a rocky ledge I knew, with Tressady panting behind me, his hook ringing on the rocks as he scrambled in pursuit. So at last we reached the place I sought—a shelf of rock, the cliff on one side, Martin, and on the other a void with the sea thundering far below—a narrow ledge where his great bulk hampered him and his strength availed little. And there we fought, his dagger and hook against my dead comrade's knife, and thus as he sprang I, falling on my knee, smote up beneath raised arm, heard him roar and saw him go whirling over and down and splash into the sea—"

"And he had the dagger with him, Adam!" says I in eager question.

"Aye, Martin, which was the end of an ill rogue and an evil thing."

"The end," says I, "the end, Adam? Why then—what o' this?"

So saying I whipped the strange dagger from my wallet and held it towards him balanced upon my palm. Now, beholding this, Penfeather's eyes opened suddenly wide, then narrowed to slits as, viewing this deadly thing, he drew back and back, and so sat huddled in his chair utterly still, only I heard his breath hiss softly 'twixt clenched teeth.

"Martin," says he in the same hushed voice, "when a man's dead he's dead, and the dead can never come back, can they, shipmate?"

But now, as we sat thus, eyeing the evil thing on the table betwixt us, my answer died on my lips, for there came a sharp, quick rapping of fingers on the lattice.



CHAPTER XII

TELLETH OF A FIGHT IN THE DARK

Penfeather was at the casement, had whipped open the lattice and, pinning the intruder by the throat, thrust a pistol into his face all in a moment; and then I recognised Godby the peddler.

"Let be, Adam!" I cried, springing forward. "Let be, here's a friend!" Saying nothing, Penfeather thrust away the weapon, and gripping the little man in both hands, with prodigious strength jerked him bodily in through the window; which done, he clapped to the lattice and drawing the curtain stood fronting Godby grim-lipped.

"And now what?" says he softly.

"Lord!" gasped Godby, "Lord love me, but here's a welcome to a pal, here's the second pistol I've had under my nose this night—throttle me in a hayband else!"

"What d'ye seek?"

"My pal Martin, 'cording to his word."

"D'ye know this fellow, Martin?"

"Aye!" I nodded and told briefly how and where we had met.

"God-be-here Jenkins am I, master," said Godby, "and well beknown to Joel Bym as keepeth this house, strangle me else—ask Joel! And if you're Master Penfeather I've first, this here for ye, and second, a warning." And speaking, Godby drew a letter from the breast of his leathern jerkin.

"A warning?" says Penfeather, glancing at the superscription, "Against whom?"

"A black dog as goes erect on two legs and calls himself Gregory Bragg."

"You mean Lady Brandon's under-bailiff?"

"I do so. Well, he be no friend o' yourn, and what's more, he's hand and fist wi' others as be no friends o' yourn either, cut-throat sailor-men and black rogues every one."

"How d'ye know 'em for sailor-men?"

"By their speech, master—I was a mariner once—and moreover by a ranting, hell-fire chorus."

"Ha!" says Penfeather, shooting a glance at me. "A chorus, was it?"

"Aye, master, concerning murder and what not."

"And the words running like this—

'Two on a knife did part wi' life And three a bullet took O! But three times three died plaguily A-wriggling on a hook O!'

Was that the way of it?"

"Smother me if it weren't!" quoth Godby, staring.

"Sit down, Godby, and tell me how you chanced on this," says Adam, seating himself at the table.

"Well, master, I happened to lie snug hid 'neath a heap o' straw—and for why, says you? Says I to you, by reason o' two lousy catchpolls as won't let poor Godby be. Now this straw chanced to be in my Lady Brandon's stables—and why there, says you? Says I to you, because these lousy catchpolls being set on poor Godby by this black dog Gregory, and him my lady's man, my lady's stables is the last place catchpolls would come a-seeking Godby. Well now, as I lie there I fall asleep. Now I'm a light sleeper and presently I'm roused by the sound o' your name, master."

"Mine?" says Penfeather, softly.

"Aye. 'Here's a black passage to Captain Penfeather—curse him!" says a voice. 'Aye,' says another, 'by knife or bullet or—' and here he falls to singing of a knife and a bullet and a hook. 'Avast!' says a third voice. 'Belay that, Abny, you'll be having all the lubbers about the place aboard of us!' 'Why,' says the man Abny, 'since you're wi' us well and good, but don't forget we was hard in his wake, aye, and ready to lay him aboard long before you hove in sight and damn all, says I.' 'Some day, Abny, some day,' says the other, "I shall cut out that tongue o' yourn and watch ye eat it, lad, eat it—hist, here cometh Gregory at last—easy all.' Now the moon was very bright, master, and looking out o' my hay-pile as the door opened I spied this rogue Gregory—"

"Did ye see aught o' the others?" questioned Adam.

"No master, not plain, for they kept to the dark, but I could see they was four and one a very big man. 'Ha' ye got it, friend, ha' ye got it?' says the big rogue. 'No, plague on't!' says Gregory. 'Look how I will, I can find nought.' 'Here's luck!' says the big fellow, 'Bad luck, as I'm a soul. Where's he lie?' 'Can't say,' says Gregory. 'His messages go to the Conisby Arms, but he aren't there, I know.' 'The Faithful Friend, was it,' says the big fellow, 'a-lying off Deptford Creek?' 'Aye, the Faithful Friend,' says Gregory, and then chancing to look outside, claps finger to lip and comes creeping into the shadow. 'Lie low!' says he in a whisper—here's my lady!' And then, master, close outside comes my lady's voice calling 'Gregory! Gregory!' 'Answer, fool!' whispers the big man. 'Quick, or she'll be athwart our cable!' 'Here, my lady!' says Gregory and steps out o' the stable as she's about to step in. 'Gregory,' says she in hesitating fashion, 'have ye seen a stranger hereabouts to-night?' 'Not a soul, my lady!' says Gregory. 'A tall, wild man,' says she, 'very ragged and with yellow hair?' 'No, my lady,' says Gregory. Here she gives a sigh. 'Why then,' says she, 'bear you this letter to Master Penfeather—at once.' 'To the Conisby Arms, my lady?' says Gregory. 'No,' says she, 'to the Peck-o'-Malt by Bedgebury Cross. And, Gregory, should you see aught of the poor man that suffered lately in the pillory, say I would speak with him. And now saddle and begone with my letter.' 'To Bedgebury,' says Gregory, 'the Peck-o'-Malt—to-night, my lady?' 'This moment!' says she, mighty sharp. 'And, Gregory, I hear tales of your hard dealing with some of the tenantry: let me hear no more or you quit my service!' And away she goes, leaving Gregory staring after her, letter in hand. ''Twas she!' says the big man in a whisper. 'I'd know her voice anywhere—aye, 'twas she whipped it from my girdle, my luck, shipmates—our luck, but we'll find it if we have to pull the cursed house down brick and brick.'"

"Godby," says Adam suddenly, leaning forward, "did ye get no glimpse o' this man's face?"

"Nary a one, master, and for why?—the place was dark and he wore a great flapped hat."

"Why then," says Adam, pinching his chin, "did ye chance to see his hands?"

"No whit, master, and for why?—he wore a loose cloak about him."

"And what more did ye hear?"

"No more, master, and for why?—because, as luck would have it a straw tickled my nose and I sneezed loud as a demi-culverin, and there's poor Godby up and running for his life and these murderous rogues after poor Godby. Howbeit they durst not shoot lest they should alarm the house, and I'm very light on my feet and being small and used to dodging catchpolls and the like vermin, I got safe away. Having done which and bethinking me of my pal Martin, I made for the Peck-o'-Malt. Now as luck would have it, Gregory overtakes me (as I had purposed he should, I being minded to get even wi' him for good and all). Down he gets from the saddle and me by the collar, and claps a great snaphaunce under my nose. 'So it was you, ye rogue, was it?' says he. 'That same,' says I, 'but who's that peeping over the hedge there?' The fool turns to see, I twist the pistol out of his grip, and have him very neatly trussed and gagged with his belt and my girdle, and so, heaving him i' the ditch, into the saddle and here I am."

"Godby," says Penfeather, viewing him keen-eyed, "I need men—will ye sail with us for the Main?"

"Does Martin sail?"

"He does! Will ye along?"

"Heartily, captain, heartily!"

"Are ye armed, Godby?"

"I've Gregory's dag here," says Godby, pulling out a long-barrelled pistol.

"Joel shall find ye another to go with it. And ye know the sea?"

"Aye, Captain, I sailed with Captain Myddleton as gunner and will lay you a gun with any man from a murdering-piece or minion to a great culverin."

"Good!" says Penfeather and summoned Joel Bym, who, beholding the peddler, stared, bellowed jovial greeting, and at nod from Penfeather, departed with him, arm in arm.

"Well, Martin," says Adam when the door had closed, "and what d'ye make o' this tale of sailor-men?"

"That they're the same rogues I fell out with."

"Beyond doubt, Martin. And what more?"

"That like enough they're on their road hither."

"Beyond any peradventure, shipmate."

"Well?"

"Well, let 'em come, Martin, let 'em come. There's somewhat here I don't understand and I mislike mystery. So let them come, here in this little room, in light or dark, I ask no better."

"And you such a timid man, Adam!"

"True, Martin, but there's occasion when a worm turneth." Here he took up the letter Godby had brought and breaking the seal, read it through, once with a glimmer of his grim smile, read it again and frowned and frowning, glanced across at me:

"Here's matter concerning you, Martin, hark'ee!" And he read this:

"To MASTER ADAM PENFEATHER:

Should you chance upon the poore man that suffered lately in the pillory (by no order or will of mine) you will I charge you do all you may to succour him in any manner soever: This letter I do write in much haste to instruct you that I purpose to sail in the 'Faithfull Friend' along with you and my good cuzen Sir Rupert in this quest for my father. Moreover I will you should sail as speedily soon as may be.

As regardeth the poore young man afore-mentioned, if he be quite destitute as I do think him, and will take no money as I do judge most like, then Master Adam you shall offer to him such employ in my ship the 'Faithfull Friend' as he will accept.

And this is my wish and command.

JOAN BRANDON.

He is great and tall and fierce with yellow hair and cruell mouth, yet seemeth more cruell than he trulie is."

"So there you are to a hair, Martin, and here's our enterprise brought to nought if she sail on this venture!"

"Why then she mustn't sail!" says I.

"'Tis her ship, Martin, and she's a Brandon!"

"Then sail without her."

"And be taken before we're clear o' the Downs and strung up at Execution Dock for piracy."

"Why then if she goeth aboard I don't!"

"And wherefore not, Martin?"

"I'll take no service with a Brandon!"

"Aye verily there's your pride, Martin, which is cumbersome cargo."

"Call it what you will, I'll not sail."

"And your oath, comrade? Sail along o' me you must and shall! But having respect for your high-stomached pride you shall stow away in some hole or corner and she never know you're aboard."

Hereupon I scowled, but perceiving him so serene albeit a little grim, I said no more and he fell to pacing slowly back and forth, head bowed and hands locked behind him.

"I need you, Martin," says he at last, "aye, I need you even more than I thought, the one man I may trust to in a pinch. For, Martin, here's that I don't understand."

So saying he halted by the table, and presently taking up the dagger (and with a strange reluctance) fell to twisting it this way and that; finally he gave a sudden twist and the smiling head of the silver woman coming away, showed a hollow cavity, running the length of the haft, roomy and cunningly contrived. Slowly he fitted the head into place again and, laying the weapon down, shook his head:

"Here's Bartlemy's dagger true enough, Martin," says he, touching its keen point. "Here's what found Bartlemy's black heart—aye, and many another! Here's what went hurtling over cliff in Tressady's fist—and yet here it lies—which is great matter for wonder, Martin. And, since 'tis here—why then—where sis the vile rogue Tressady? Which is matter for painful speculation, Martin—where?"

"Snoring, likely enough!" says I, "Not so far hence, or tramping hither."

"If so, Martin, then Death cannot touch him, the which is out of all reason!"

"'Tis more like the fall did not kill him, Adam."

"Had you but seen the place, shipmate! But if water won't drown him and steel won't harm him—"

"Like you, he wears a chain-shirt, Adam, that I do know. Moreover, the devil cherisheth his own, I've heard."

"Why here's reason, Martin, plain reason I grant, and yet—but 'tis late and you'll be for sleep, and there's reason in that too. Come, I'll show your bed—"