Sir Mortimer

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.

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