be ashamed if
private differences should ever prejudice by a grain the public weal."

This was a great effort of oratory for Amyas; and he therefore, in order
to be safe by following precedent, tried to talk as much as he could
like Sir Richard Grenville. Of course Winter could answer nothing to it,
in spite of the plain hint of private differences, but that he should
not fail to show himself a captain worthy of so valiant and trusty
a gentleman; whereon the whole party turned their attention to the
captive, who, thanks to Will Cary, was by this time sitting up, standing
much in need of a handkerchief, and looking about him, having been
unhelmed, in a confused and doleful manner.

"Take the gentleman to my tent," said Winter, "and let the surgeon see
to him. Mr. Leigh, who is he?--"

"An enemy, but whether Spaniard or Italian I know not; but he seemed
somebody among them, I thought the captain of a company. He and I cut at
each other twice or thrice at first, and then lost each other; and after
that I came on him among the sand-hills, trying to rally his men, and
swearing like the mouth of the pit, whereby I guess him a Spaniard. But
his men ran; so I brought him in."

"And how?" asked Raleigh. "Thou art giving us all the play but the
murders and the marriages."

"Why, I bid him yield, and he would not. Then I bid him run, and he
would not. And it was too pitch-dark for fighting; so I took him by the
ears, and shook the wind out of him, and so brought him in."

"Shook the wind out of him?" cried Cary, amid the roar of laughter which
followed. "Dost know thou hast nearly wrung his neck in two? His vizor
was full of blood."

"He should have run or yielded, then," said Amyas; and getting up,
slipped off to find some ale, and then to sleep comfortably in a dry
burrow which he scratched out of a sandbank.

The next morning, as Amyas was discussing a scanty breakfast of biscuit
(for provisions were running very short in camp), Raleigh came up to
him.

"What, eating? That's more than I have done to-day."

"Sit down, and share, then."

"Nay, lad, I did not come a-begging. I have set some of my rogues to dig
rabbits; but as I live, young Colbrand, you may thank your stars that
you are alive to-day to eat. Poor young Cheek--Sir John Cheek, the
grammarian's son--got his quittance last night by a Spanish pike,
rushing headlong on, just as you did. But have you seen your prisoner?"

"No; nor shall, while he is in Wint