"What was Dick Carpenter's dream?" asked the Captain, seated, sword in hand and hat on head, before a deputation from the forecastle.

The speaker fidgeted, then out came the clumsy taunt, the carpenter's dream. "Why, sir, he dreamed he saw the women of the islands, sitting by the shores, a-sifting gold-dust and a-weighing of pearls;—and then he dreamed that he looked along the sea-floor, leagues and leagues to the south'ard, until he saw the very roots of the mainland, and the great fish swimming in and out. And a many and a many dead men were there, drawn into ranks, very strange to see, for their swollen flesh yet hung to their bones, and they beckoned and laughed; and Captain Robert Baldry, that was once, on a Guinea voyage, Dick Carpenter's Captain, he laughed the loudest and beckoned the fastest. And, Sir Mortimer Ferne, an it please you, we've no longing to follow that beckoning."

"Thou dog!" said the Captain, with no change of mien. "Presently Dick Carpenter and thou shall have food for dreams—bad dreams, bad dreams, man! Thou fool, have I set thee quaking who, forsooth, would mutiny! Begone, the whole of ye, and sail the whole of ye wheresoever I list to go!"

Seeing that the Sea Wraith obeyed him still, her crew believed yet more devoutly that a secret voice spoke in his ear and a dark hand gave him aid. It was later, when he began to feed them gold, that they who owned caps threw them up for him, and they whose brains had only nature's thatching shouted for him as for a demigod. A Spanish squadron bound for The Havannah was met by a hurricane, several of its ships lost, and the remainder widely separated. The hurricane past, forth from an island harbor stole the Sea Wraith that so many storms had beleaguered. Gray as with eld, lonely as the ark, a haggard ship manned by outcasts, she spread her vampire wings and flitted from her enshadowed anchorage. An hour later, like a vampire still, she hooked herself to a gay galleon and sucked from it life that was cheap and gold that was dear; then descrying other sails, she left that ruined hulk for a long and fierce struggle with a Portuguese carrack. The battle waxed so fell that the carrack also might have been worked by men who had all to win and naught to lose, and captained by one who bared his brow to the thunder-stone.

Like harpies they fought, but when night came there was only the Sea Wraith scudding to the south, and that pied crew of hers knocking at the stars with the knowledge that ever and always their judgment (even though he asked it not) jumped with the Captain's, and that before them lay the gilded cities and the chances of Pizarro. It was of his subtlety that the Captain never used to them fair promises, spake not once a sennight of gold, never bragged to them of what must be. Oh! a subtle captain, whose very strangeness was his best lieutenant upon that eldritch, nine-lived ship, through days and days of monstrous luck. "Baldry's luck," quoth the mariner who had sailed with the Star, then held his breath and looked askance at his present Captain, who, however, could never have heard him up there on the poop-deck! Natheless that night the man was ordered forward, and finding Sir Mortimer Ferne sitting alone, save for the boy, in the great cabin, was bidden to talk of Robert Baldry. "Speak freely, Carpenter,—freely! Why, thou art one of his friends, and I another, and we go, somewhat at our peril, to hale him from perdition! Why, thou thyself saw him beckoning to us to hasten and do our friendly part! So praise thy old Captain to me with all thy might. We'll fill an empty hour with stories of his valor!" He put forth his hand and turned the hour-glass, and the carpenter began to stammer and make excuses, which no whit availed him.

At last, one afternoon, they came to Margarita, and, the ship needing water, they entered a placid bight, where a strip of dazzling sand lay between the rippling surf and a heavy wood, but found beforehand with them a small bark from the mainland, her crew ashore filling barrels from a limpid spring, and her master and a Franciscan friar eating fruit upon her tiny poop. The dozen on land showed their heels; the worthless bark was taken, a party with calivers landed to complete the filling of the abandoned casks, and the master and the friar brought before the Captain of the Sea Wraith where he sat beneath a great tree, tasting the air of the land. An insatiable gatherer of Spanish news, it was his custom to search for what crumbs of knowledge his captives might possess, but hitherto the yield, pressed together, had not made even a small cake of enlightenment. He was prepared to have shortly done with the two who now stood before him. The seaman cringed, expecting torture, furtively watching for some indication of what the Englishman wished him to say. A fellow new to these parts and ignorant, he would have sworn a highway to El Dorado itself if that was the point towards which his inquisitor's quiet, unemphatic questions tended; but he knew not, and his lies fell dead before the grave eyes of the man beneath the tree. At last he was tossed aside like a squeezed sponge and the Franciscan beckoned forward, who, being of sturdier make, twisted his thumbs in his rope girdle and prepared to present a blank countenance to those queries of armaments and treasure which an enemy to Spain would naturally make. But the Englishman asked strange questions; so general that they seemed to encompass the mainland from Tres Puntas to Nombre de Dios, and so particular that it was even as if he were interested in the friar himself, his order, and his wanderings from town to town, the sights that he had seen and the people whom he had known. The questions seemed harmless as mother's milk, but the friar was shrewd; moreover, in his youth had been driven to New Spain by flaming zeal for the conversion of countless souls. That fire had burned low, but by its dying light he knew that this man, who was young and yet so still, whose lowered voice was but as sheathed steel, whose eyes it was not comfortable to meet, had set his hand to a plough that should drive a straight furrow, was sending his will like an arrow to no uncertain mark. But what was the mark the Franciscan could not discover, therefore he gave the truth or a lie where seemed him best, increasingly the truth, as it increasingly appeared that lies would not serve. He also, seeing that with gathering years he had begun to set value upon flesh and bone, wished to please his captor. He glanced stealthily at the scarred and ancient craft in the windless harborage, idly flapping her mended sails, before he said aught of the great English ships that in pomp and the fulness of pride had entered these waters now months agone. The Englishman had heard of this adventure—so much was evident—but details would seem to have escaped him. He knew, however, that there had been first victory and then defeat, and he too looked at his ship and at the guns she carried.



"The town was sacked, but the castle not taken," he said. "What, good brother, if I should break a lance in these same lists?"

"It would be broken indeed," said the friar, grimly. "An it please you, I will bear your challenge to Don Juan de Mendez."

"To Don Luiz de Guardiola," said the man beneath the tree.

"Pardon, senor, but Juan de Mendez is at present Governor of Nueva Cordoba. Don Luiz de Guardiola has been transferred to Panama."

The Englishman arose and looked out to sea, his hand above his eyes because of the flash and sparkle of the sun upon the water. The Franciscan, having told the truth, wondered forthwith if falsehood had better served his turn. Face and form of his interlocutor were turned from him, but he saw upon the hot, white sand the shadow of a twitching hand. Moments passed before the shadow was still; then said the Englishman, in a changed voice:

"Since you know of its governors, old and new, I judge you to be of Nueva Cordoba. So you may inform me of certain matters."

"You mistake, senor, you mistake," began the Franciscan, somewhat hastily. "The master of the bark will bear witness that I came to Margarita upon the Santa Maria, sailing directly from Cartagena, but that, being ill, I chose to recover myself at Pampatar before proceeding (as you now behold me, valorous senor) to Hispaniola, and thence by the first vessel home to Spain, to the convent of my order at Segovia, which is my native town. I know naught of Nueva Cordoba beyond that which I have told you."

"Why, I believe thee," answered the Englishman, his back still turned. "You go from Cartagena, where, Franciscan and Dominican, you play so large a part in this world's affairs, to your order at Segovia, which is an inland town, and doubtless hath no great knowledge of these outlandish parts. Your tongue will tire with telling of wonders."

"Why, that is true," answered the other. "One lives not fifteen years in these parts to carry away but a handful of marvels." Relieved by the easiness of his examination and the courtesy of his captor, he even smiled and ventured upon a small pleasantry. "You cannot take from me, redoubtable senor, that which my eyes have seen and my ears have heard."

Ferne wheeled. "Give me the letter which you bear from your superior at Cartagena to the head of your order at Segovia."

As he recoiled, the Franciscan's hand went involuntarily to the breast of his gown, and then fell again to his side. The Captain of the Sea Wraith whistled, and several of the mariners, who were now rolling the water-casks down the little beach to the waiting boats, came at his call. "Seize him," ordered the Captain. "Robin, take from him the packet he carries."

When he had from the boy's hand a small, silk-enwrapped packet, and had given orders for the guarding of the two prisoners, he turned and strode alone into the woods, which stretched almost to the water's edge. It was as though he had plunged into a green cavern far below the sea. In slow waves, to and fro, swayed the firmament of palms; lower, flowering lianas, jewel-colored, idle as weeds of the sea, ran in tangles and gaudy mazes from tree to tree. He sat himself down in the green gloom, broke seal, unwrapped the silk, and read the letter, which he had acutely guessed could not fail of being sent by so responsible a hand as the friar's from one dignitary of the order to another. Much stateliness of Latin greeting, commendation of the returning missionary, mention of a slight present of a golden dish wrought in alacrity and joy by Indian converts; lastly, and with some minuteness, the gossip, political and ecclesiastical, of the past twelfth month. The sinking of the Spanish ships and the sacking of the town of Nueva Cordoba by English pirates, together with their final defeat, were touched upon; but more was made of the yield to the Church of heretic souls, in all of whom Satan stood fast. The Holy Office had delivered them to the secular arm, and the letter closed with a circumstantial account of a great auto-de-fe in the square of Cartagena. Without the wood, upon the edge of white sand, the men of the Sea Wraith waited for their Captain. At last he came, so quiet of mien and voice that only Robin-a-dale stared, caught his breath, and gazed hard upon an ashen face.

Ferne's orders were of the curtest: Begone, every man of them, to the Sea Wraith, and lie at anchor waiting for the morning. For himself, he should spend the night ashore; they might leave for him the cockboat, and with the first light he would come aboard. The two prisoners,—place them in the ransacked bark and let them go whither they would or could. He glanced in their direction, then turning sharply, crossed the sand to stand for a moment beside the Franciscan.

"Prithee, thou brown-robed fellow, how looked he in a sanbenito—that tall, fierce, black-bearded Captain that your Provincial mentions here?" The parchment rustled in his hand.

The friar quailed before the narrowed eyes; then, the old flame in him leaping up, he answered, boldly enough, "It became him well, senor,—well as it becomes every enemy to Spain and the Church!"

The other slightly laughed. "Why, go thy ways for a man of courage! but go quickly, while as yet in all this steadfast world I find no fault save with myself."

He stood to watch the embarkment of the mariners, who, if they wondered at this latest command, had learned at least to wonder in silence. But Robin-a-dale hung back, made protest. "Go!" said his master, whereupon Robin went indeed—not to the awaiting boat, but with a defiant cry end a rush across the sloping sand into the thick wood. The green depths which received him were so labyrinthine, so filled with secret places wherein to hide, that an hour's search might not dislodge him. The sometime Captain of the Cygnet let pass his wilfulness, signed to the boats to push off, awaited in silence the fulfilment of all his commands; then turning, rounded the eastern point of the tiny bay, and was lost to sight in the shadows of the now late afternoon.

The sun went down behind the lofty trees; the brief dusk passed, and the little beach showed faintly beneath the stars, great and small, of a moonless night. Above the western horizon clouds arose and the lightning constantly flashed, but there was no thunder, and only the sound of the low surf upon the shore. Robin, creeping from the wood, saw the Sea Wraith at anchor, and by the distant lightning the bark from Pampatar drifting far away without sail or rudder. Rounding the crescent of gleaming sand, he lost the Sea Wraith and the bark, but found whom he sought. Finding him, he made no sign, but sat himself down in the lee of a sand-dune, and with a memory swept clear of later prayers, presently began in a frightened whisper to say his

"Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—"

Half-way down the pallid beach stood Ferne, visible enough even by the starlight, now and then completely shown by one strong lightning flash. His doublet was thrown aside, his right arm advanced, his hand grasping the hilt of his drawn sword. But the sword point was lowered, his breast bared; he stood like one who awaits, who invites, the last thrust, in mortal surrender to an invisible foe. The lines of the figure expressed a certain weariness and suspense, as of one who would that all was over, and who finds the victor strangely tardy. The face, seen by the occasional lightning flash, was a little raised, a little expectant.

Robin-a-dale, seeing and comprehending, buried his head in his arms and with his fingers dug into the sand. Now and then he looked up, but always there was the pallid slope of the beach, the intermittent break of the surf that was like the inflection of a voice low and far away, the stars and the groups of stars, strange, strange after those of home, the lightning from the western heavens, the duellist awaiting with lowered point the coming of that antagonist who had so fiercely lived, so fiercely died, so fiercely hated that to the reeling brain of his challenger it well might seem that Death, now holding the door between betrayed and betrayer might not prevail.

The boy's heart was a stone within him, and he saw not why God allowed much that went on beneath His throne. A long time he endured, half prone upon the sand, hating the sound of the surf, hating the flash of the lightning; but at last, when a great part of the night had passed, he arose and went towards his master. The shadow of the dune disguised the slightness of his form, and his foot struck with some violence against a shell. The lightning flashed, and he saw Ferne's waiting face.

"Master, master!" he cried. "'Tis only Robin,—not him! not him! Master—"

Stumbling over the sand, he fell beside the man whose soul cried in vain unto Robert Baldry to return and claim his vengeance, and wrenched at the hand that seemed to have grown to the sword-hilt. "You are not kind!" he wailed. "Oh, let me have it!"

"Kind!" echoed Ferne, slowly. "In this sick universe there is no kindness—no, nor never was! There is the space between rack and torch." In the flashing of the lightning he loosed his rigid clasp, and the sword, clanking against the scabbard, fell upon the sand. The lightning widened into a sheet of pale violet and the surf broke with a deeper voice. "Canst thou not find me, O mine enemy?" cried Ferne, aloud.

Presently, the boy yet clinging to him, he sank down beside him on the sand. "Sleep, boy; sleep," he said. "Now I know that the gulf is fixed indeed, and that they lie who say the ghost returns."

"It is near the dawning," said the boy. "Do you rest, master, and I will watch."

"Nay," answered the other. "I have pictures to look upon.... Well, well, lay thy head upon the sand and dream of a merry world, and I myself will close my eyes. An he will, he may take me sleeping."

Robin slept and dreamed of Ferne House and the horns of the hunters. At last the horns came so loudly over the hills that he awakened, to find himself lying alone on the sand in a great and solemn flush of dawn. He started up with a beating heart; but there, coming towards him from a bath in the misty sea, was his master, dressed, and with his sword again in its sheath. As he made closer approach, the strengthening dawn showed the distinction of form and countenance. To the latter had returned the stillness and the worn beauty of yesterday, before the bark from Pampatar had brought news. The head was bared, and the light fell curiously upon the short and waving hair, imparting to it, as it seemed, some quality of its own. Robin, beholding, stumbled to his feet, staring and trembling.

"Why dost thou shake so?" asked the Captain of the Sea Wraith. "And thou art as white as is the sand! God forfend that the fever be on thee!"

More nearly the old voice of before these evil days of low, stern utterance! More nearly the old, kindly touch! Robin-a-dale, suddenly emboldened, caught at hand and arm and burst into a passionate outcry, a frenzy of entreaty. "Home! home! may we not go home now? They're all dead—Captain Robert Baldry and Ralph Walter and all! And you meant no harm by them—O Jesu! you meant no harm! There's gold in the hold of the Sea Wraith for to buy back Ferne House, and now that you've won, and won again from the Spaniard, the Queen will not be angry any more! And Sir John and Sir Philip and Master Arden will bid us welcome, and men will come to stare at the Sea Wraith that has fought so many battles! Master, master, let us home to Ferne House, where, at sunset, in the garden, you and the lady walked! Master—"

His voice failed. Sir Mortimer loosed the fingers that yet clung to his arm. "When I am king of these parts, thou shalt be my jester," he said. "Come! for it's up sail and far away this morning,—far away as Panama. I am thirsty. We'll drink of the spring and then begone."

When they had rounded once more the wooded point they saw the Sea Wraith, and drawn up upon the sand its cockboat. The sun had risen, so that now when they entered the forest there was ample light by which to find out the slowly welling spring, so limpid in its basin as to serve for mirror to the forest creatures who drank therefrom. All the tenants of the forest were awake. They hooted and chattered, screamed and sang. Orange and green and red, the cockatoos flashed through the air, or perched upon great boughs beside parasitic blooms as gaudy as themselves. Giant palms rustled; monkeys slid down the swinging lianas, to climb again with haste, chattering wildly at human intrusion; butterflies fluttered aside; the spotted snake glided to its deeper haunts. Suddenly, in the distance, a wild beast roared, and when the thunder ceased there was a mad increase of the lesser voices. Sound was everywhere, but no sweetness; only the mockery, gibing, and laughter of an unseen multitude. From the topmost palm frond to the overcolored fungi patching the black earth arrogant Beauty ruled, but to the weary eyes that looked upon her she was become an evil queen. Better one blade of English grass, better one song of the lark, than the gardens of Persephone!

Ferne, kneeling beside the spring, stooped to drink. Clear as that fountain above which Narcissus leaned, the water gave him back each lineament of the man who, accepting his own earthly defeat, had yet gathered all the powers of his being to the task of overmastering that bitter Fate into whose hands he had delivered, bound, both friend and foe; the man for whom, now that he knew what he knew, now that the fierce victrix had borne away her prey, was left but that remaining purpose, that darker thread which since yesterday's snapping of its fellow strands had grown strong with the strength of all. Before the water could touch his lips he also saw the mark one night had set upon him, and drew back with a slight start from his image in the pool; then, after a moment, bent again and drank his fill.

When Robin-a-dale had also quenched his thirst the two left the forest, and together dragged the cockboat down the sand and launched it over the gentle surf. Ferne rowed slowly, with a mind that was not for Robin, nor the glory of the tropic morning, nor the shock of yesterday, nor the night's despair. He looked ahead, devising means to an end, and his brows were yet bent in thought when the boat touched the Sea Wraith's side.

As much a statesman of the sea as Drake himself, he knew how to gild authority and hold it high, so that they beneath might take indeed the golden bubble for the sun that warmed them. He kept state upon the Sea Wraith as upon the Cygnet, though of necessity it was worn with a difference. For him now, as then, music played while he sat at table in the great cabin, alone, or with his rude lieutenants, in a silence seldom broken. Now, as he stepped upon deck, there was a flourish of trumpets, together with the usual salute from mariners and soldiers drawn up to receive him. But their eyes stared and their lips seemed dry, and when he called to him the master who had fought with Barbary pirates for half a lifetime, the master trembled somewhat as he came.

It was the hour for morning prayer, and the Sea Wraith lacked not her chaplain, a man honeycombed with disease and secret sin. The singing to a hidden God swelled so loud that it rang in the ears of the sick below, tossing, tossing, muttering and murmuring, though it pierced not the senses of them who lay still, who lay very, very still. The hymn ended, the chaplain began to read, but the gray-haired Captain stopped him with a gesture. "Not that," he commanded. "Read me a psalm of vengeance, Sir Demas,—a psalm of righteous vengeance!"



XI

In England, since the stealing forth of one lonely ship, heard of no more, three spring-times had kissed finger-tips to winter and bourgeoned into summer, and three summers had held court in pride, then shrivelled into autumn. In King Philip of Spain his Indies, blazing sunshine, cataracts of rain, had marked off a like number of years, when Sir Francis Drake with an armada of five-and-twenty ships, fresh from the spoiling of Santiago and Santo Domingo, held the strong town of Cartagena, and awaited the tardy forthcoming of the Spanish ransom. Week piled itself upon week, and the full amount was yet lacking. When negotiations prospered and the air was full of promise, Sir Francis and all his captains and volunteers were most courteous, exchanging with their enemies compliment and entertainment; when the Spanish commissioners drew back, or when the morning report of the English dead from fever or old injuries was long, half the day might be spent in the deliberate sacking of some portion of the town. With the afternoon the commissioners gave ground again, and like enough the evening ended with some splendid love-feast between Spaniard and Englishman. On the morrow came the usual hitch, the usual assurances that the gold of the town had been buried (one knew not where) by its fleeing people, the usual proud wheedling for the naming by the victors of a far lower ransom. Drake having reaped more glory than gain from Santiago and Santo Domingo, was now obstinate in his demand, but Carlisle, the Lieutenant-General, counselled less rigorous terms, and John Nevil, who with two ships of his own had joined Drake at the Terceiras, spoke of the fever.

"It is no common sickness. Each day sees a battle lost by us, won by the Spaniard. You have held his strongest city for now five weeks. There are other cities, other adventures upon which thou wilt fight again, and again and again until thou diest, Frank Drake."

"There were a many dead this morning," put in Powell, the sergeant-major. "There had been a many more were't not for the friar's remedy."

Drake moved impatiently. "I would your miracle of St. Francis his return had wrought itself somewhat sooner. Now it is late in the day,—though God knows I am glad for the least of my poor fellows if he be raised from his sickness through this or any other cure.... Captain Carlisle, you will see to it that before night I have the opinion of all the land captains touching our contentment with a moiety of the ransom and our leave-taking of this place. Captain Cecil, you will speak for the officers of the ships. Three nights from now the Governor feasts us yet again, and on that night this matter shall be determined. Gentlemen, the council is over."

As the group dissolved and the men began to move and speak with freedom, Giles Arden touched Captain Powell upon the sleeve.

"What monk's tale is this of a Spanish friar who wastes the elixir of life upon Lutheran dogs? I' faith, I had bodeful dreams last night, and waked this morning now hot, now cold. I'll end my days with no foul fever—an I can help it! What's the man and his remedy?"

"Why," answered Powell, doubtfully, "his words are Spanish, but at times I do think the man is no such thing. He came to the camp a week agone, waving a piece of white cloth and supporting a youth, who, it seems, was like to have pined away amongst the Indian villages, all for lack of Christian sights and sounds. The friar having brought him to the hospital, wished to leave him with the chirurgeons and himself return to the Indians, whom, we understand, he has gathered into a mission. But the youth cried out, and clutching at the other's robe (i' was a pity to see, for he was very weak), dragged himself to his feet and set his face also to the forest. Whereupon the elder gave way, and since then has nursed his companion—ay, and many another poor soul who longs no more for gold and the strange things of earth. As for the remedy—he goes to the forest and returns, and with him two or maybe three stout Indians bearing bark and branch of a certain tree, from which he makes an infusion.... I only know that for wellnigh all the stricken he hath lightened the fever, and that he hath recalled to life many an one whom the chirurgeon had given over to the chaplain."

"What like is the youth?" queried Arden.

"Why, scarce a boy, nor yet a man in years; and, for all his illness, watcheth the other like any faithful dog. English, moreover—"

"English!"

"At times he grows light-headed, and then his speech is English, but the gowned fellow stills him with his hand, or gives him some potion, whereupon he sleeps."

"What like is this Spanish friar?" broke in suddenly and with harshness Sir John Nevil's voice.

"Why, sir," Powell answered, "his cowl overshadows his face, but going suddenly on yesterday into the hut where he bides with the youth, I saw that as he bent over his patient the cowl had fallen back. My gran'ther (rest his soul!), who died at ninety, had not whiter hair."

"An old man!" exclaimed Sir John, and, sighing, turned himself in his chair. Arden, rising, left the company for the window, where he looked down upon the city of Cartagena and outward to the investing fleet. The streets of the town were closed by barricades, admirably constructed by the Spaniards, but now in English possession. Beyond the barricades and near the sea, where the low and narrow buildings were, lay the wounded and the fever-stricken;—rude hospital enough! to some therein but a baiting-place where pain and panic and the miseries of the brain were become, for the time, their bed-fellows; to others the very house of dissolution, a fast-crumbling shelter built upon the brim of the world, with Death, the impartial beleaguer, already at the door. Arden turned aside and joined the group about Drake, the great sea-captain in whose company nor fear nor doubting melancholy could long hold place.

That night, shortly after the setting of the watch, Sir John Nevil, with a man or two behind him, found himself challenged at the barricade of a certain street, gave the word, and passed on, to behold immediately before him and travelling the same road a dark, unattended figure. To his sharp "Who goes there?" a familiar voice made answer, and Arden paused until his friend and leader came up with him.

"A common road and a common goal," spoke Nevil.

"Ay!—common fools!" answered the other. "Who hearing of gray geese, must think, forsooth, of a swan whose plumage turned from white to black! And yet, God knows! to one, at least, the selfsame splendid swan; if lost, then lost magnificently.... This is an idle errand."

"The youth is English," replied Nevil.

"Did you speak to Powell?"

"Ay; I told him that I should visit the hospital this night. We are close at hand. Hark! that was the scream of a dying man. Christ rest whatever soul hath taken flight!"

"There is a pale light surrounds this place," said Arden. "It comes from the fires which they burn as though the black death were upon us. Do you hear that groaning?—and there they carry out a weighted body. War!..."

A group of men moved towards them—Powell, a chirurgeon, a soldier or two. Another minute and all were gathered before the hut of which Powell had made mention. That worthy officer waved back their following, and the three alone entered the dimly lighted place.

"The friar is not here," said Powell, in a tone of vexation. "Passing this way, I did but look within to cheer the youth by some mention of the honor that was intended him to-night. Now they tell me that the man went to the forest ere sunset and hath not returned. Also that he gave the youth a sleeping potion—"

"Which hath not brought sleep," answered Arden, who was keen of sight.

"I took it not!" cried out the half-risen form from its pallet in the corner of the hut. "He thought I drank it, but when his head was turned I threw it away. Master Arden! Master Arden! come over to me!"

Arden raised, embraced, supported the figure that, quivering with weakness and excitement, might also feel the heaving breast, the quickened heart-beats, of the man who held him. Nevil, in whom deep emotion was not apt to show itself, knelt beside the pallet, and taking the thin hands, caressed them like a very woman.

"Lad, lad," he whispered, "where is thy master? Is he dead? Or did he leave thee here but now to search for simples?"

Robin-a-dale looked from one to the other, great eyes shining in a thin, brown face. "Three years," he said,—"three years since we crept away from Ferne House in a ship that was called—that was called—that was called the Sea Wraith. But no trumpets sounded, and there was no throng to shout farewell. Why was that? But I remember it was three years ago." He laughed weakly. "I'm a man grown, Master Arden, but here's still the rose noble which you gave me once.... No; I must have lost it in the woods." He nodded sagely. "I remember; I lost it where the river came over the great rock with a noise that made me think of a little, sliding stream at home. It was Yuletide, but the flowers smelled too sweet, and the great apes and the little monkeys sat in the red trees and mocked me."

"He wanders again," said Powell, with vexation. "The friar can bring him back with voice or touch, but not I!"

"Where is the Sea Wraith, Robin-a-dale? Answer me!" Nevil's voice rose, cold and commanding, questioning this as any other derelict haled before him.



Instinctively Robin brought his wits somewhat together. "The Sea Wraith," he echoed. "Why, that was long ago ... Sixscore men, we left her hidden between the islet and the land until we should return.... Her mariners were willing to be left—ay, and when I'm a knight I'll maintain it!—their blood is not upon his hands.... But when six men from that sixscore came again to the coast there was no ship,—so I think that she sank some night, or maybe the Spaniards took her, or maybe she grew tired and sailed away,—we were so long in winning back from Panama."

There was a deep exclamation from his listeners. "From Panama!"

Robin regarded them anxiously, for to Nevil at least he had always spoken truth, and now he dimly wondered within himself if he were lying. "The nest at Nueva Cordoba was empty," he explained. "The hawk had killed the sparrows and flown far away to Panama."

"And the eagle followed the hawk," muttered Arden. "Was there not one sparrow left alive, Robin?"

Robin mournfully shook his head. "The commoner sort went to the galleys; others were burned.... Is this city named Cartagena? Then 'twas in this city Captain Robert Baldry and Ralph Walter and more than they, dressed in sanbenitos, burning in the market-place.... We learned this at Margarita, so my master would go to Panama to wring the hawk's neck.... But the Sea Wraith was heavy with gold and silver, and all the scoundrels upon her wished to turn homewards. But he bore them down, and there was a compact made and signed. For them all the treasure that we had gotten or should get, and for him their help to Panama that he might take his private vengeance.... And so we put on all sail and we coasted a many days, sometimes fighting and sometimes not, until we drew in towards the land and found a little harbor masked by an islet and near to a river. And a third of our men we left with the Sea Wraith. But Sir Mortimer Ferne and I—my name is Robin-a-dale—we took all the boats to go as far as we might by way of the river. And my master rowed strongly in the first boat, and I rowed strongly in the second, for we rowed for hate and love; but the other boats came on feebly, for they were rowed by ghosts—"

Arden moved beneath the emaciated form he held, and Powell uttered an ejaculation. But John Nevil used command.

"Back, sirrah! to the truth," and the crowding fancies gave ground again.

"It was the Indians who shot at us poisoned arrows. They made ghosts of many rowers. Ha! in all my nineteen years I have not seen an uglier death! That was why we must leave the river, hiding the boats against the time that we returned that way ... returned that way."

"You went on through the woods towards Panama. And then—" Nevil's voice rose again.

"The wrath of God!" answered the boy, and turning within Arden's clasp, began to babble of London streets and the Triple Tun. The claw-like hands had dragged themselves from Nevil's hold, and the spirit could be no longer caught by the voice of authority, but wandered where it would.

The men about him waited long and vainly for some turn of the tide. It drew towards midnight, and Robin yet babbled of all things under the sun saving only of a man that had left England now three years agone. At last Nevil arose, spoke a few words to Arden, who nodded assent; then, with Powell, moved to the door.

"When will this friar return?" he asked, as they crossed the threshold.

"I do not know," Powell answered. "With the dawn, perhaps. He will not be long gone."

"Perhaps he will not come at all," said the other. "You say that the boy is out of danger. Perhaps he hath returned to the Indians whom you say he teacheth."

Powell shook his head. "Here are too many sick and dying," he said, simply. "He will come back. I swear to you, Sir John Nevil, that in this pestilent camp between the city and the sea we do think of this man not as a Spaniard—if he be Spaniard—nor as monk—if he be monk! He hath power over this fever, and those whom he cannot cure yet cry out for him to help them die!"

There was a silence, followed by Sir John's slow speech. "When he returns send him at once under guard to my quarters—I will make good the matter with Sir Francis. Speak the man fair, good Powell, give him gentle treatment, but see to it that he escape you not.... Here are my men. Good-night."

Three hours later to Nevil, yet dressed, yet sitting deep in thought within his starlit chamber, came a messenger from the captain of the watch. "The man whom Sir John Nevil wot of was below. What disposition until the morning—"

"Bring him to me here," was the answer. "Stay!—there are candles upon the table. Light one."

The soldier, drawing from his pouch flint, steel, and tinder-box, obeyed, then saluted and withdrew. There was a short silence, followed by the sound of feet upon the stone stairs and a knock at the door, and upon Nevil's "Enter!" by the appearance of a sergeant and several soldiers—in the midst of them a figure erect, composed, gowned, and cowled.

The one candle dimly lit the room. "Will you stand aside, sir?" said Nevil to his captive. "Now, sergeant—"

The sergeant made a brief report.

"Await, you and your men, in the hall below," ordered Nevil. "You have not bound your prisoner? That is well. Now go, leaving him here alone."

The heavy door closed to. Upon the table stood two great gilt candelabra bearing many candles, a fragment of the spoil of Cartagena. Nevil, taking from its socket the one lighted taper, began to apply the flame to its waxen fellows. As the chamber grew more and more brilliant, the friar, standing with folded arms, made no motion to break the profound stillness, but with the lighting of the last candle he thrust far back the cowl that partly hid his countenance, then moved with an even step to the table, and raising with both hands the great candelabrum, held it aloft. The radiance that flooded him, showing every line and lineament, was not more silvery white than the hair upon his head; but brows and lashes were as deeply brown as the somewhat sunken eyes, nor was the face an old man's face. It was lined, quiet, beautiful, with lips somewhat too sternly patient and eyes too sad, for all their kindly wisdom. The friar's gown could not disguise the form beneath; the friar's sleeve, backfallen from the arm which held on high the branching lights, disclosed deep scars.... Down-streaming light, the hour, the stillness—a soul unsteadfast would have shrunk as from an apparition. Nevil stood his ground, the table between him and his guest of three years' burial from English ken. Both men were pale, but their gaze did not waver. So earnestly did they regard each other, eyes looking into eyes, that without words much knowledge of inner things passed between them. At last, "Greet you well, Mortimer Ferne," came from one, and from the other, "Greet you well, John Nevil."

The speaker lowered the candelabrum and set it upon the table. "You might have spared the sergeant his pains. To-day I should have sought you out."

"Why not before to-day?"

"I have been busy," said the other, simply. "Long ago the Indians taught me a sure remedy for this fever. There was need down yonder for the cure.... Moreover, pride and I have battled once again. To-night, in the darkness, by God's grace, I won.... It is good to see thy face, to hear thy voice, John Nevil."

The tall tapers gave so great and clear a light that there was no shadow for either countenance. In Nevil's agitation had begun to gather, but his opposite showed as yet only a certain worn majesty of peace. Neither man had moved; each stood erect, with the heavy wood like a judgment bar between them. Perhaps some noise among the soldiers below, some memory that the other had entered the room as a prisoner, brought such a fancy to Nevil's mind, for now he hastily left his position and crossed to the bench beneath the wide window. The man from the grave of the South-American forest followed. Sir John stretched out his hand and touched the heavy woollen robe that swept from bared throat to rudely sandalled feet.

"This?" he questioned.

The other faintly smiled. "I found it many months agone in a village of the Chaymas. I was nigh to nakedness, and it has served me well. It is only a gown. This"—he touched the knotted girdle—"but a piece of rope."

"I have seen the boy, Robin-a-dale," said Nevil.

The other inclined his head. "Captain Powell told me as much an hour ago, and also that by some slip my poor knave slept not, as I had meant he should, but babbled of old things which have wellnigh turned his wits. He must not stay in this land, but back to England to feel the snow in his face, to hear the cuckoo and the lark, to serve you or Arden or Philip Sidney. What ancient news hath he given you?"

"You went overland to Panama."

"Ay,—a dreadful journey—a most dreadful return ... Don Luiz de Guardiola was not at Panama. With a strong escort he had gone three days before to San Juan de Ulloa, whence he sailed for Spain."

A long silence; then said Nevil: "There is no passion in your face, and your voice is grave and sweet. I thank God that he was gone, and that your soul has turned from vengeance."

"Ay, my soul hath turned from vengeance," echoed the other. "It is now a long time that, save for Robin, I have dwelt alone with God His beauty and God His terror. I have taught a savage people, and in teaching I have learned." He moved, and with his knee upon the window-seat, looked out upon the fading stars. "But the blood," he said,—"the blood upon my hands! I know not if one man who sailed with me upon the Sea Wraith be alive. Certes, all are dead who went with me a fearful way to find that Spaniard who is safe in Spain. Six men we reached again the seashore, but the ship was gone. One by one, as we wandered, the four men died.... Then Robin and I went upward and onward to the mountains."

"When you left England your cause was just," said Nevil, with emotion.

"Ay, I think it was so," Sir Mortimer replied. "At home I was forever naught; on these seas I might yet serve my Queen, though with a shrunken arm. And Robert Baldry with many another whom I had betrayed might yet languish in miserable life. God knows! perhaps I thought that God might work a miracle.... But at Margarita—"

"I know—I know," interrupted Nevil. "Robin told us."

"Then at Margarita," continued the other, "I forgot all else but my revenge upon the man who had wrought disaster to my soul, who had dashed from my hand even that poor salve which might and might not have somewhat eased my mortal wound. Was he at Panama? Then to Panama would I go. In Ultima Thule? Then in Ultima Thule he should not escape me.... I bent the mariners and soldiers of the Sea Wraith to my will. I promised them gold; I promised them joyous life and an easy task—I know not what I promised them, for my heart was a hot coal within my breast, and there seemed no desirable thing under the sun other than a shortened sword and my hand upon the throat of Don Luiz de Guardiola. They went with me upon my private quarrel, and they died. Ah, well! It has been long ago!" His breath came in a heavy sigh. "I am not now so keen a hunter for my own. In God's hands is justice as well as mercy, and when death throws down the warder I shall understand. In the mean while I await—I that speak to you now and I that betrayed you four years agone."

He turned from the window, and the two again stood face to face.

"I am a child at school," said Ferne. "There was a time when I thought to keep for bed-fellow pride as well as shame; when I said, 'I am coward, I am traitor,' and put to my lips the cup of gall, but yet I drank it not with humility and a bowed heart.... I do not think, John, that I ever asked you to forgive me.... Forgive me!"

On the part of each man there was an involuntary movement, ending in a long and mute embrace. Each touched with his lips the other's cheek, then they sat with clasped hands in eloquent silence, while the candles paled in the approaching dawn. At last Sir Mortimer spoke:

"You will let me go now, John? There are many sick men down by the sea, and Robin will grow restless—perhaps will call my name aloud."

Arising from the window-seat, Nevil paced the room, then returned to the sometime Captain of the Cygnet. "Two things and I will let you go where you do the Queen and Francis Drake yeoman service. You will not slip a silken leash, but will abide with us in this town?"

"Ay," was the answer, "until your sick are recovered and your mariners are making sail I will stay."

Nevil hesitated. "For the present I accept your 'until.' And now I ask you to throw off this disguise. We are men of a like height and make. Yonder within the chamber are suits from which you may choose. Pray you dress at once."

A faint red swept into the other's countenance. "If I do as you bid, I may not go unrecognized. I say not, 'Spare me this, John Nevil!' I only ask, 'Is it wise?'... Sir Francis Drake is commander here. Four years ago he swore that you were too merciful, that in your place he would have played hangsman to me more blithely than he played headsman to Thomas Doughty."

"I sail not under Francis Drake," Nevil answered. "Meeting me with two goodly ships at the Terceiras, he was fain enough to have me join my force to his. Over my own I hold command, and I shall claim you as my own. But you have no fear of Francis Drake! Is it your thought that your shield is forever reversed, and that you are only welcome, only unashamed, yonder where sickness stretches forth its hands, and Death gives back before you? If it is so, yet be that which you are!—No Spanish friar, but English knight and gentleman. If it be known to high and low that once you fell, then face that knowledge with humility of heart, with simplicity, but with the outward ease and bearing of that estate in which God placed you. This garb becomes you not, who are yet a soldier of England. Away with it!—then in singleness of mind press onward along thy rocky road until God calls thee at last to His green meadows, to His high city. Ah, my friend! I give but poor and meagre words to that I read within thy eyes. There is no need for me to speak at all when thy lit soul looks out upon me!"

The dawn began to show faint splendors, and the winds of morning drove aslant the candle flames. Ferne shook his head and his countenance darkened somewhat with vain regrets and sharp memories of old agonies. "Not that, my friend! I am changed, but God knows—not I—what other change would come did He lift His rod. Once I thought I knew all right from all wrong, all darkness from all light—yea, and I strove to practise that knowledge.... I think now that to every man may come an hour when pride and assurance go down—when for evermore he hath that wisdom that he no longer knows himself." He smiled. "But I will do what you ask, John. It were strange, were it not, if I refused you this?" As he passed Nevil, the two touched hands again. Another moment and the door of the inner room closed upon him. Sir John, awaiting his return, began to quench the candles one by one, for there was no need of other light than the flooding dawn.

Some minutes had passed, when a knock at the outward door interrupted his employment. Crossing the floor, he opened to Sir Francis Drake, who stood alone upon the threshold, his escort trampling down the stone stairs to the hall beneath. Nevil uttered an exclamation, which the other met with his bluff, short laugh.

"So you as well as I have let the jade Sleep slip by this night!" He brushed past Nevil into the room. "I gave it up an hour agone, and am come to take counsel before breakfast. At the nooning Carlisle and Cecil will bring me the opinions of the captains, land and sea. I know already their conclusion and my answer. But I deny not that 'twill be a bitter draught." He did not take the great chair which Nevil indicated, but kept on to the window, where with a sound, half sigh, half oath, he flung himself down upon the broad seat.

"I' faith, John Nevil, I know not why I am here, seeing that your counsel has been given us, unless it be that you have more wisdom than most, and may somewhat sweeten this course which, mark you! I stand ready to take, or sweet or bitter, if thereby the Queen is best served.... The officer whom this Governor sent out days ago in search of these wealthy fugitives from the town—these rich people who starve on gold and silver dishes—hath returned with some report or other as to the treasure. What think you if at this coming feast—"

Said Nevil abruptly: "Let us not speak of such matters here, Frank! I am fully dressed; let us go into the air!"

Drake stared. "And be observed of all that we hold counsel together! What's wrong with the room?" Glancing narrowly from wall to wall, he came suddenly to a realization of the presence of a third person—a stranger, dressed in some dark, rich stuff, who stood with folded arms against the door which he had closed behind him. Distinction of form, distinction of the quiet face, distinction of white hair, so incongruous and yet, strangely enough, the last and stateliest touch of all—after a moment of startled scrutiny Drake leaned forward, keen eyes beneath shaggy brows, one hand tugging at his beard. "Who are you, sir?" he asked.

Nevil interposed. "He is under my command—a volunteer for whom I alone am responsible."

The figure against the door advanced a pace or two. "I am Mortimer Ferne, Sir Francis Drake."

There was a pause, while Drake, staring as at one just risen from the dead, got slowly to his feet.

"Long ago," continued the apparition, "we had some slight acquaintance—but now 'tis natural that you know me not.... I pray you to believe me that until you drew near the window I thought Sir John Nevil alone in the room; moreover, that I have heard no word of counsel, saving only the word itself."

"I hear you, sir," answered Drake, icily. "Fair words and smooth—oh, very courtier-like words! Oh, your very good assurance!—but I choose my own assurance, which dwells in the fact that naught has been said to which the Spaniard is not welcome!"

Nevil drew in his breath with a grieved, impatient sigh, but Sir Mortimer stood motionless, nor seemed to care to find answering words. The blood had mounted to his brow, but the eyes which gazed past the speaker into the magnificent heart of the dawn were very clear, very patient. Moments passed while Drake, the great sea-captain, sat, striking his booted foot upon the floor, looking from Nevil, who had regained his usual calm, to the man with whom oblivion had no more to do. Suddenly he spoke:

"You are he who in the guise of a Spanish friar hath nursed our sick? Give you thanks!... Which of your ships, John Nevil, do you make over to this—this gentleman?"

Nevil, drawing himself up, would have answered with haughtiness, but with a quick gesture of entreaty Ferne himself took the word.

"Sir Francis Drake—Sir John Nevil," he said, "I pray that, because of me, you come not to cold words and looks which sort not with your noble friendship! I shall never again, Sir Francis Drake, command any ship whatsoever, hold any office, be other than I am,—a man so broken, so holpen by Almighty God, that he needs not earthly praise or blame.... I have a servant ill within the camp who will fret at my absence. Wilt let me begone, John?—but you must first explain to the sergeant this my transformation. Sir Francis Drake, so long as you tarry in Cartagena I submit myself to what restriction, what surveillance, upon which you and my former Admiral may determine."

"I will let you go but for a time," Nevil answered, firmly. "Later, I shall send for you and Robin to some fitter lodging." He turned to Drake. "Frank—Frank Drake, I but give again to all our sick the man to whom, under God, is owed this abatement of the fever. I pray you to await me here while I myself deliver him to the sergeant below. It is necessary, for he entered this room in disguise, who goes forth clad again as an English gentleman. Then will I tell you a story which I think that, four years agone, may have been given you rather by a man's foes than by his friends—and another story of deep repentance and of God's path, which is not our path;—and Francis Drake hath indeed changed overnight if he make of this a quarrel between him and John Nevil, or if he be not generously moved towards this gentleman whom I count as my friend and follower!"

"I will wait," said Drake, after a pause. "Give you good-day, sir. Your service to our sick is known, and for it our thanks are due. At the present I can say no more."

Ferne bowed in silence, then, with Nevil, left the room for the hall below, where the startled sergeant and his men saluted indeed Sir John Nevil, but kept their eyes upon the figure at his side.

Nevil, beckoning to the sergeant, drew off a few paces and gave in a lowered voice instructions to be borne to Captain Powell. Then the one knight mounted to the room where Drake awaited him, and the other went, guarded, through the tropic morn to the fevered and the restless, who yearned for him as the sick may yearn, and to the hut where Arden strove to restrain Robin-a-dale's cries for his master.



XII

During the afternoon came an order to Captain Powell that the sick youth should be taken to Sir Mortimer Ferne's apartment in the house where lodged Master Arden. Thus it was that in the cooler air before sunset a litter was borne through the streets of Cartagena. In addition to the bearers and some other slight attendance there walked with it Sir John Nevil and Captain Powell, Giles Arden and Sir Mortimer Ferne. Sometimes the latter laid his hand upon the youth's burning forehead, sometimes upon the lips which would have babbled overmuch. Bearers and escort stared and stared. One who had been about the spital, and had seen a brother brought from under the shadow of death, repeatedly stumbled because he could not take his eyes from the friar become English gentleman—become friend of so great a gentleman as Sir John Nevil.

The little procession turned one corner, then another. Sir Mortimer touched Nevil's arm. "There's a shorter way—down this narrow street we are passing."

"Ay," Nevil answered; "but let us go by the way of the market-place."

His thought was that none too soon could occur general recognition that Sir Mortimer Ferne dwelt in the English camp and walked with English leaders. The square, as it proved, was no desert. The hour was one of some relaxation, relief from the sun, and from the iron discipline of Drake, who, for the most part of the day, created posts and kept men at them. Carlisle was there seated in the shade of a giant palm, watching the drilling of a yet weak and staggering company whose very memory that burning calenture had enfeebled. At one side of the place, which was not large, others were examining a great heap of booty, the grosser spoils of rich men's houses, furniture of precious woods, gilt and inlaid cabinets, chests of costly apparel, armor, weapons, trappings of horses,—all awaiting under guard assortment and division. In the centre of the square a score or more of adventurers were gathered about the wide steps of a great stone market-cross, while from a point opposite to the street by which the party from the hospital must make entry advanced with some clanking of steel, talking, and sturdy laughter no lesser men than Francis Drake and some of his chiefest captains. Carlisle left watching the drilling and walked over to them. The adventurers lounging below the cross sprang up to greet their Admiral. A sudden puff of evening wind lifted Drake's red cap, and bearing it across to a small battery where a gunner and his mates examined a line of Spanish ordnance, placed it neatly over the muzzle of the smallest gun. Frank laughter arose; the gunner, with the red cap pressed against his hairy breast, and grinning with pleasure at his service, came at a run to restore to the great Sir Francis his property. Drake, whom the mere soldier and mariner idolized, found for the gunner both a peso of silver and jesting thanks; then, when he had donned the cap, turned and loudly called to the passing company. "Come over to us, John Nevil," cried the sea-king. "No, no, let us have your companions also, and that sick youth we have heard of"

"You do not understand," muttered Ferne, hastily, to Nevil. "This place likes me not. Go you and Arden—"

Sir John shook his head. Alone with Drake that morning, he had told in its completeness the story that in many details was strange to him who was seldom in England, seldomer at court, and who had heard the story in a form which left scant room for pity or any dream of absolution. Once and again the great sea-captain had softly sworn to himself, and at the end Nevil had gone forth satisfied. Now he saw that Drake must have timed this meeting in the square, and with a smile he ignored the entreaty in the eyes of the man who, if his friend, was also his captive. He motioned to the bearers, and presently the company about the market-cross was enlarged.

Drake, after his hearty fashion, clapped his arm about Sir John's shoulder, calling him "dear Nevil." Arden, with whom he had slighter acquaintance, he also greeted, while Powell was his "good Powell, his trusty Anthony." There was a slight shifting in the smaller group, Nevil by a backward step or two bringing into line the man who stood beside the litter. Drake turned. "Give you godden, Sir Mortimer Ferne! Our hearty thanks, moreover, for the good service you have done us."

He spoke loudly, that all might hear. If beneath the bluff good-fellowship of word and voice there was any undercurrent of coldness or misliking, only one or two, besides the man who bowed to him in silence, might guess it. By now every man about the market-cross was at attention. Rumors had been rife that day. Neither at home in England nor here in Spanish dominions was there English soldier or sailor who knew not name and record of Sir Mortimer Ferne. Among the adventurers about the market-cross were not lacking men who in old days had viewed, admired, envied, and, for final tribute, contemned him. These broke ranks, pressing as closely as was mannerly towards the group about the litter. All gaped at Drake's words of amity, at Sir John Nevil's grave smile, and Carlisle's friendly face, but most of all at that one who had been the peer of great captains, but who now stood amongst them undetached, ghost-like, a visitant from the drear world of the dishonored dead. The palm-trees edging the square began to wave and rustle in the wind; the youth upon the litter moved restlessly, uttering moaning and incomprehensible words. Drake was speaking to Arden and others of the gentlemen adventurers.

"What ails you?" murmured Nevil, at Ferne's ear. "There is sweat upon your forehead, and you hold yourself as rigid as the dead. Your touch is icy cold."

"I burn," answered the other, in as low a tone. "Let us go hence."

Nevil motioned to the bearers, who raised the litter and began again their progress across the square. Drake turned from those to whom he had been speaking. "Will ye be going? You shall sup with us to-night, John Nevil! Master Arden, I do desire your better acquaintance. Captain Powell, you will stay with me who have some words for your ear. Sir Mortimer Ferne, I trust you will recover your servant, as you have recovered so many of our poor fellows"—his voice dropped until it was audible only to the three or four who made his immediate circle,—"as you have wellnigh recovered yourself."

Generous as he was, he had not meant to go so far. He had yet his doubts, his reversions, in mind, to those sheer facts which none denied. This was a recreant knight—but also a man who had suffered long and greatly, who, if eye and intuition could be trusted, suffered now. He hesitated a moment, then abruptly held out his hand.

All saw the gesture, and a sudden hush fell upon the company. If these two touched hands, then in that moment would be spanned the distance between the star in the ascendant and the wavering marsh-light, between the sea-colossus and his one-time rival, now so long overwhelmed and chained to sterile earth.

In the short silence the wind seemed to take with a rushing sound the palm tops overhead. Then Ferne spoke. "With all my heart I thank you," he said. "I may not take your hand until you know"—he raised his voice so that all who chose might hear—"until you know that here where I stand, here before this cross, died in the torment of fire that Captain Robert Baldry who was my private foe, who lay beneath my challenge, whom I betrayed to his agony and to his martyr's death.... Ah! I will hold you excused, Sir Francis Drake!"

With the deep exclamation, the involuntary recoil, that followed on the heels of such an avowal, there appeared to descend upon the place a dark shadow, a veritable pall, a faint murk of driven smoke, through which men saw, to-day, the spectacle of nigh four years agone.... The silence was broken, the spell dissolved, by Robin-a-dale's feeble cry from the litter: "Master, master; come with me, master!"

Drake, who, with a quick intake of his breath, had drawn sharply back, was the first to recover. He sent his lightning glance from the frowning, the deeply flushed and horror-stricken, countenances about him to the man whose worn cheek showed no color, whose lips were locked, whose eyes were steadfast, though a little lifted to the blue sky above the cross. "Now death of my life!" swore the sea-king. "The knave did well to call you 'Master.' Whatever there may have been, here is now no coward!" He turned to the staring, whispering throng. "Gentlemen, we will remove from this space, which was the death-bed of a brave man and a true martyr. This done, each man of you will go soberly about his business, remembering that God's dealings are not those of men;—remembering also that this gentleman is under my protection." Doffing his red cap, he stepped slowly backward out of the wide ring about the market-cross. His example was followed by all; a few moments and the last rays of the sinking sun lay only upon bare stone and earth.

Some hours later, Robin-a-dale asleep in the bed, and his master keeping motionless watch at the window, Arden entered the room which had been assigned to Sir Mortimer Ferne, and crossing the floor, sat himself down beside his friend. Presently Ferne put forth his hand, and the two sat with interlacing fingers, looking out upon the great constellations. Arden was the first to speak.

"Dost remember how, when we were boys at school, and the curfew long rung, we yet knelt at our window and saw the stars come up over the moorland? Thou wert the poet and teller of tales—ah! thy paladins and paynims and ladies enchanted!—while I listened, bewitched as they, but with an ear for the master's tread. It was a fearful joy!"

"I remember," said the other. "It was a trick of mine which too often brought the cane across our shoulders."

"Not mine," quoth Arden. "You always begged me off. I was the smallest—you waked me—made me listen, forsooth!... Welladay! Old times seem near to-night!"

"Old times!" repeated the other. "Pictures that creep beneath the shut eyelid!—frail sounds that outcry the storm!—Shame's most delicate, most exquisite goad!... You cannot know how strange this day has been to me."

"You cannot know how glad this day has been to me," replied Arden, with a break in his voice. "Do you remember, Mortimer, that I would have sailed with you in the Sea Wraith?"

"I forget nothing," said the other. "I think that I reviled you then.... See how far hath swung my needle!" He lifted his school-fellow's hand to his cheek in a long, mute caress, then laying it down. "There is one at home of whose welfare I would learn. She is not dead, I know. Her brother comes to me in my dreams with all the rest—with all the rest,—but she comes not. Speak to me of Mistress Damaris Sedley."

A short pause; then, "She is the fairest and the loveliest," said Arden. "Her beauty is a fadeless flower, but her eyes hold a history it were hard to read without a clue. One only knows the tale is tragical. She is most gentle, sweet, and debonair. The thorns of Fortune's giving she has twisted into a crown, and she wears it royally. I saw her at Wilton six months ago."

"At Wilton! With the Queen?"

"No; she left the court long ago. You and the Sea Wraith were scarce a month gone when that grim old knight, her guardian, would have made for her a marriage with some spendthrift sprig of more wealth than wit. But Sidney, working through Walsingham and his uncle Leicester, and most of all through his own golden speech, got from the Queen consent to the lady's retirement from the court, and so greatly disliked a marriage. With a very noble retinue he brought her to his sister at Wilton, where, with that most noble countess, she abides in sanctuary. When you take her hence—"

Sir Mortimer laughed. "When I take the rainbow from the sky—when I leap to meet the moon and find the silver damsel in my arms indeed—when yonder sea hath washed away all the blood of the earth—when I find Ponce de Leon's spring and speak to the nymph therein: 'Now free me from this year, and this, and this, and this! Make me the man that once I was!' Then I will go a pilgrimage to Wilton."

He rose and paced the room once or twice, then came back to Arden at the window. "Old school-fellow, we are not boys now. There be no enchanters; and the giant hugs himself in his tower, nor will come forth at any challenge; and the dragon hath so shrunken that he shows no larger than a man's self;—all illusion's down!... I thank thee for thy news of a lady whom I love. I am full glad to know that she is in health and safety, among old friends, honored, beloved, fairer than the fairest—" His voice shook, and for the moment he bowed his face within his hands, but repression came immediately to his command. He raised his head and began again with a quiet voice, "I will write to her a letter, and you will be its bearer—will you not, old friend? riding with it by the green fields and the English oaks to noble Wilton—"

"And where, when the ships have brought us home, do you go, Mortimer?"

"To the Low Countries. Seeing that I go as a private soldier, John Nevil may easily gain me leave. And thou, Giles, I know, wilt give me money with which I may arm me and may cross to the English camp. I am glad that Philip Sidney becomes my general. Although I fight afoot, in the long trenches or with the pike-men and the harquebusiers, yet may I joy to look upon him, flashing past, all gilded like St. George, with the great banner flying, leading the wild charge—the shouts of his horsemen behind him—"

Arden sprang to his feet, pushed the heavy settle aside, and with a somewhat disordered step went to the bed where lay Robin-a-dale. "He will recover?" he asked, in a low voice, as Ferne came to his side.

"Ay, I think so," answered the other. "He will sleep throughout the night, and the morn should find him stronger, more clear in mind.... I am going now to the spital—no, no; I need no rest, and I have leave to come and go."

The two descended together to the door of the great hall, whence Ferne went his solitary way, and Arden stood to watch him out of sight. As the latter turned to re-enter the house, he was aware of a small band of men, English and Spanish, proceeding from Drake's lodging towards the citadel, which, robbed of all ordnance and partly demolished, yet sheltered the Governor, his officers, and sundry Spanish gentlemen. To-day the envoy from the wealthy fugitives and owners of buried gold had returned, and, evidently, to-night Drake and the Spanish commissioners had again discussed the matter of ransom.

Arden, within the shadow, watched the little torchlit company of English soldiery and Spanish officials cross his plane of vision. There was some talking and laughter; an Englishman made a jest, and a Spaniard answered with a proverb. The latter's voice struck some chord in Arden's memory, but struck it faintly. "Now where have I heard that voice?" he asked, but found no answer. The noise and the light passed onward to the citadel, and with a brief good-night to a passing sentinel he himself turned to take his rest.

The next day at noon Ferne deliberately, though with white lips and half-closed eyelids, crossed the market square, and sought out Sir John Nevil's quarters. By the soldiers in the great hall he was told that Sir John was with the Admiral—would he wait? He nodded, and sat himself down upon a settle in the hall. The guard and those who came and went eyed him curiously; sometimes whispered words reached his ears. Once, when he had waited a long time, a soldier brought him a jack of ale. He drank of it gratefully and thanked the donor. The soldier fidgeted, lowered his voice. "I fought under you, Sir Mortimer Ferne, at Fayal in the Azores. You brought us that day out of the jaws of death, and we swore you were too much for Don or devil!—and we drank to you that evening, full measure of ale!—and we took our oath that we had served far and near under many a captain, but none like you—"

Ferne smiled. "Was it so, soldier? Well, may I drink to you now who drank to me then?"

He drew the ale towards him but kept his eyes upon the other's countenance. The man reddened from brow to bared throat, but his words came at once, and there was moisture in his blue eyes. "If my old captain will do me so much honor—" he began, unsteadily. Ferne with a smile raised his jack to his lips and drank to him health and happy life and duty faithfully done.

When, after stammered thanks, the man was gone, the other waited hour after hour the appearance of Sir John Nevil. At last he came striding down the hall to the stair, but swerving suddenly when he caught sight of Ferne, crossed to the settle, and gave him quiet greeting. "Sir Francis kept me overlong," he said. "How has gone the day, Mortimer?"

"The fever lessens," answered the other. "There are not many now will die.... May I speak to you where there are fewer eyes?"

A few moments later, in Sir John's room, he took from his doublet a slip of paper. "This was brought to me some hours ago. Is it an order?"

"Ay," said Nevil, without touching the out-held paper. "An order."

Ferne walked to the window and stood there, looking out upon the passers-by in the street below. One and all seemed callow souls who had met neither angel nor devil, heard neither the thunderbolt nor the still small voice. Desperately weary, set to a task which appalled him, he felt again the sting of a lash to which he had thought himself inured. There was a longing upon him that this insistent probing of his wound should cease. Better the Indians and the fearful woods, and Death ever a-tiptoe! better the stupendous strife of the lonely soul to maintain its dominion, to say to overtoppling nature, to death, and to despair, I am. There was no man who could help the soul.... This earthly propping of a withered plant, this drawing of tattered arras over a blood-stained wall, what was it to the matter? For the moment all his being was for black, star-touching mountains, for the wild hurry of league-long rapids, the calling and crying of the forest;—the next he turned again to the room with some quiet remark as to the apparent brewing of a storm in the western skies. Nevil bent upon him a troubled look.

"It was my wish, Mortimer, to which Drake gave ready assent. It is, as you see, an order for your presence to-night, with other gentlemen volunteers, at this great banquet with which the Spaniard takes leave of us. Shall I countermand it?"

"No," answered the other. "My duty is to you—I could not pay my debt if I strove forever and a day. You are my captain,—when you order I obey."

A silence followed, during which Sir Mortimer stood at the window and Sir John paced the floor. At last the former spoke, lightly: "There will be a storm to-night.... I must go comfort that knave of mine. At times he doth naught but babble of things at home—at Ferne House. This morn it was winter to him, and in this burning land he talked of snowflakes falling beneath the Yule-tide stars; yea! and when he has spoken pertly to the sexton he needs must go a-carolling:

"'There comes a ship far sailing then,— St. Michael was the steersman; St. John sate in the horn; Our Lord harped; Our Lady sang, And all the bells of heaven rang.'"

He sang the verse lightly, as simply and sweetly as Robin had sung it, then with a smile turned to go; and in passing Nevil laid a slight caressing touch upon his shoulder. "Until to-night then, John!—and, by'r Lady! seeing that you will be at the top of the board and I at the bottom, I do think that I may hear nothing worth betraying!"

Sir John uttered an ejaculation, and would have taken again the folded paper, but the other withstood him, and quietly went his way to kneel beside Robin-a-dale, give up his hand to tears and kisses (for Robin was very weak, and thought his master cruel to leave him so long alone), to the youth's unchecked babble of all things that in his short life appertained to Ferne House and to its master.

Sir Francis Drake and Alonzo Brava had come to a mind in regard to the ransom for the town. If the English gained not so large a sum as they had hoped for, yet theirs was the glory of the enterprise, and Drake's eye was yet upon Nombre de Dios. If the Spaniards had lost money and men and had looked on day by day at the slow dilapidation of their city, yet they had riches left, and the life of the Spanish soldier was cheap, and that ruined portion of the town might be built again. Agreements had been drawn as to the ransom of the city of Cartagena and signed by each leader,—by Brava with the pious (but silent) wish that the fleet might be miraculously destroyed before the drying of the ink; and by Drake with one of his curious mental reservations, concerning in this case the block-house and the great priory just without the city. Matters being thus settled and the next morning named for the British evacuation of Christendom, needs must pass the usual courtesies between the then stateliest people of Cartagena and the bluntest. Alonzo Brava, in all honesty, invited to supper with him in his dismantled citadel Sir Francis Drake, Sir John Nevil, and all officers and gentlemen within the English forces. Drake as frankly accepted the courtesy for himself and all who might be spared from the final labors of the night.

In the late evening, by a stormy light which, seen through the high, wide, and open windows, seemed to pit itself against the approaching darkness, Brava, motioning to right and left, seated himself with his principal guests at the head of the table, while his chamberlains busied themselves with serving the turn of lesser names. Captains and officers, gentlemen and volunteers of wealth and birth, fell into place, while the end of the table left was for needier adventurers, scapegrace and out-at-elbow volunteers. Noiseless attendants went to and fro. Great numbers of candles, large as torches, were lighted, but the prolonged orange glare which entered the western windows seemed to have some quality distinct from light, by virtue of which men's features were not clearly seen. Distant thunder rolled, but when it passed one heard from the gallery above the hall Spanish music. The feast marched on in triumph, much as it might have done in any camp (where Famine was not King) beneath any flag of truce. Here the viands were in quantity, and there was wine to spill even after friend and foe had been loudly pledged. Free men, sea-rovers, and soldiers of fortune, it was for them no courtier's banquet. Only the presence at table of their leaders kept the wassail down. Now and again the thunder shook the hall, making all sounds beneath its own as the shrilling of a cicada; then, the long roll past, the music took new heart, while below it went on the laughter and the soldier wit, babble of sore wounds, of camp-fires, and high-decked ships—tales wild and grim or broadly humorous. At the cross-table opposite and a little below Sir John Nevil, who was seated at Brava's left hand, was a vacant seat. It awaited (the Governor explained) the envoy whom he had sent out to hardly gather the remainder of the ransom of Cartagena. The length, the heat, and danger of the journey had outwearied the envoy, who was a gentleman of as great a girth as spirit. Later, despite his indisposition, he would join them.

He came, and it was Pedro Mexia. From Nevil and Arden and several of Sir John's old officers of the Mere Honour burst more or less suppressed exclamations. Nevil, from his vantage-point, sent a lightning glance far down the table, where were gathered those whose rank or station barely brought them within this hall, but what with the massed fruit, the candles, this or that outstretched hand and shoulder, he could not see to the lowest at the table, and he heard no sound to match his own or Arden's ejaculation. Mexia, who had lingered with his own wine-cup and associates, now, after the moment of general welcome, seated himself heavily. His first gaze had been naturally for Francis Drake, the man whose name was waxing ever louder in Spanish ears, but now in the act of raising his tankard his eyes and those of the sometime conqueror of Nueva Cordoba came together. For a second his hand shook, then he tossed off the wine, and putting down his tankard with some noise, leaned half-way across the table.

"Ha! we meet again, Sir John Nevil—and after four years of mortal life we be a-ransoming yet! You see I have not lost your tongue—although I lost my teachers!" He laughed at the tag to his speech, being drunk enough to make utter mischief, out of sheer good nature.

"Doth Master Francis Sark still teach you English?" asked Nevil, coldly.

"Francis Sark—who is Francis Sark?" maundered the fuddled envoy. "There was the fool Desmond, who overreached himself trying to bargain with Luiz de Guardiola. Those who do that have strange fates!"

Arden from a place or two below put in lightly: "Well, our Sark equals your Desmond. And so he bargained with Don Luiz de Guardiola?"

Mexia's eyes wandered to the other's face. "Ha, senor! I remember your face at Nueva Cordoba! Have we here more of our conquered?" His speech began with the pomp of the frog in the fable, but at this point became maudlin again and returned to the one-time Governor of Nueva Cordoba's dealings with his creatures. "Why, Desmond was a fool to name such a price. One hundred pesos, perhaps—but four thousand! But Don Luiz smiled and paid down the silver, and the fool that was traitor to us and traitor to you and traitor to himself told all things and was hanged for his pains." Up went his tankard to his lips, and as it descended wine was spilt upon his neighbor's sleeve. The victim drew away with a smothered oath, and Brava eyed with displeasure his drunken associate.

"Why, for what could the man ask such a price?" Arden asked, with light surprise.

In a moment the other's large and vacuous countenance became sober enough. "For a trap to catch flies," he said, shortly, and turning his shoulder to all but the men of highest rank, again wetted his throat, then let his empty tankard touch the board with a clattering sound.

From the first he had drawn attention, and now at the drumming of the tankard most faces turned his way. Nevil spoke to Drake beneath his breath; the latter bending towards Alonzo Brava, addressed him in a very low tone. Brava, deeply annoyed, on the point of signalling his servitors to "quietly persuade from the table his drunken guest, listened, though still frowning. A final whisper from Drake:

"In no way toucheth your honor, a private matter—favors—ransom—"

The governor, leaning forward, playing with his wine, gave some sign of acquiescence—perhaps, indeed, may have had his own indifferences to any blackening of the character of Don Luiz de Guardiola, now nourishing at Madrid like a green bay-tree.

Mexia was displaying profound skill in the nice balancement of his tankard as the servant behind him refilled the measure. "Ha, Don Pedro!" cried Drake, with his bluff laugh, "art on that four-years-gone matter of Nueva Cordoba? Methinks Sir John Nevil brought off a knightly sufficiency of credit—"

"Sir John Nevil—Oh! Ay!" said Mexia, and with both hands carefully lowered the tankard to the level of the table. "Did Sir Mortimer Ferne bring forth such a—what's the word?—knightly sufficiency? Now I've often wondered—'Tis true I had my grudge against him also, but in such matters I go not so far as De Guardiola, who brands the soul.... I told Don Luiz as much four years ago. 'Why, I kill my man,' quoth I, 'and go on my way singing.'"

"And what said he to that?" queried Arden, lightly and easily drawing on Mexia, who, in his cups, became merely a garrulous old man.

"Why," continued the envoy, "he said, 'Mayhap the dead do not remember. So live, my foe! but live in hell, remembering the brand upon thy soul, and that 'twas I who set it glowing there!'"

A murmur ran the length of the table. Mexia suddenly found himself of a steadier brain with somewhat stronger interest in rencontres new or old. "Ha! Sir Mortimer Ferne and his knot of velvet! Don Luiz ground that beneath his heel.... Well, the man's dead, no doubt. I've wondered more than once if he lived or died; if he beat out his brains as he strove to do; if, thinking better o't, he merely held his tongue and nursed his broken body; or if he cried aloud that which the old serpent De Guardiola made him believe, and henceforth travelled life's highway a lazar!... And that's a curious thought: leper to himself—leper to his world—leper's cry—leper's mantle, with the cloth across his face—and beneath it, all cleanliness, with not a soul but God to know it!" He gave his small, chuckling laugh. "Oh, I, too, have thoughts; I, too, watch the play,—Pedro Mexia, senors, is not so gross of wit as he is thought to be!"

Nevil leaned across the table. "Leper to himself, and to his world! But to God all cleanly beneath that mantle which he drew over his forehead and his eyes! What do you mean? Sir Mortimer Ferne declared himself a coward and a traitor!"

"So!" said Mexia. "Well! 'Twas falsely sworn. Desmond was the man."

Sir John turned with rapid speech to his host. Alonzo Brava addressed Mexia, who roused himself to a fair appearance of sobriety. "Worthy Don Pedro, all here, on both sides, have heard somewhat of this story. I understand that the English hidalgo concerned is dead. Don Luiz de Guardiola is in Spain. We all know that a simple vengeance never sufficed for him who was of those who by their cruelties have brought such defamation upon our name in the Indies. I see not that you do injury to Spanish honor by giving to our friends of one night as much as you know of this history."

"Your relation will make us so greatly your debtor, Don Pedro," said Drake, "that to-morrow, ere we sail, we will think of some such token as may justly show our appreciation of the trouble we now give you. Wilt drink with me?"

The tankards clinked, the wine went down, and the flattered Mexia turned his round, empurpled countenance to Nevil. "Why, see you," he said, "'twas easy for Desmond to find the secret door in the upper room in the Friar's house, and, stealing down by the stair between the walls to listen at the hidden grating until he had by heart your every plan—but 'twas not so easy to escape to us! It lacked half an hour of sunset when be brought that news which since noon Don Luiz had sought with fury to wring from the other."

"From the other?"

"From Sir Mortimer Ferne."

An Englishman cried out, "Then were there two traitors?" but Mexia, who by now was somewhat in love with his part of raconteur, had a grim smile. "There was one Don Luiz de Guardiola.... Oh, I will tell you what you wish to know, senors! Be not so impatient. It was without the room where lay his prisoner that he gathered from Desmond news indeed; and it was from that room that he sent Desmond away, and wrote very swiftly order after order to his lieutenants. Then he went to the other door and called out Miguel, who says, 'Now and then he raves, but nothing to the point!' to which Don Luiz: 'I am going to stand beside him. You are skilful. Make him babble like a child, scarce knowing what he says. What I wanted from him matters no longer; but make him speak—words, broken sentences, cries!—I care not what. Make him aware that he holds his tongue no longer, make him struggle for silence there beneath my eyes.'