iss dirt, and know
where duty lies. The lady's word on my ship is law till we anchor at the
Queen's Stairs at Greenwich. So, Heaven help you, Shadrach, Meshach, and
Abednego!" said Buonespoir.

A wave of humour passed over Angele's grave face, for a stranger quartet
never sailed high seas together: one blind of an eye, one game of a leg,
one bald as a bottle and bereft of two front teeth; but Buonespoir was
sound of wind and limb, his small face with the big eyes lost in the
masses of his red hair, and a body like Hercules. It flashed through
Angele's mind even as she answered the gurgling salutations of the
triumvirate that they had been got together for no gentle summer sailing
in the Channel. Her conscience smote her that she should use such
churls; but she gave it comfort by the thought that while serving her
they could do naught worse; and her cause was good. Yet they presented
so bizarre an aspect, their ugliness was so varied and particular, that
she almost laughed. Buonespoir understood her thoughts, for with a
look of mocking innocence in his great blue eyes he waved a hand again
towards the graceless trio, and said, "For deep-sea fishing." Then he
solemnly winked at the three.

A moment later Angele was speeding along the shore towards her home on
the farther hillside up the little glen; and within an hour Buonespoir
rolled from the dusk of the trees by the manor-house of Rozel and
knocked at the door. He carried on his head, as a fishwife carries a
tray of ormers, a basket full of flagons of muscadella; and he did not
lower the basket when he was shown into the room where the Seigneur of
Rozel was sitting before a trencher of spiced veal and a great pot of
ale. Lempriere roared a hearty greeting to the pirate, for he was in a
sour humour because of the taking off of Michel de la Foret; and of all
men this pirate-fellow, who had quips and cranks, and had played tricks
on his cousin of St. Ouen's, was most welcome.

"What's that on your teacup of a head?" he roared again as Buonespoir
grinned pleasure at the greeting. "Muscadella," said Buonespoir, and
lowered the basket to the table.

Lempriere seized a flagon, drew it forth, looked closely at it, then
burst into laughter, and spluttered: "St. Ouen's muscadella, by the hand
of Rufus!"

Seizing Buonespoir by the shoulders, he forced him down upon a bench
at the table, and pushed the trencher of spiced meat against his chest.
"Eat, my noble lord of the sea