little waves against the ship's side, so that it seemed as if the
now flaming sky was making its song of morning. Raleigh blew out the
flickering lamp, and the cabin was filled with a clear green dusk like
palest emerald. The air from the sea flapped the pages of the book upon
the table. He flung off his furred gown, and stretched his long arms to
the ceiling.

"I think the fever has left me.... You said your tale was a commentary
on my confessions. Wherefore, O Ulysses?"

"We had the chance of immortal joys, but we forsook them for lesser
things. For that we were thoroughly punished and failed even in our
baseness. You, too, Sir Walter, have glanced aside after gauds."

"For certain I have," and Raleigh laughed.

"Yet not for long. You have cherished most resolutely an elect purpose
and in that you cannot fail."

"I know not. I know not. I have had great dreams and I have striven to
walk in the light of them. But most men call them will o' the wisps,
Jasper. What have they brought me? I am an old sick man, penniless and
disgraced. His slobbering Majesty will give me a harsh welcome. For me
the Mount of the Angels is like to be a scaflold."

"Even so. A man does not return from those heights. When I find my
celestial hill I will lay my bones there. But what matters the fate of
these twisted limbs or even of your comely head: All's one in the end,
Sir Walter. We shall not die. You have lit a fire among Englishmen which
will kindle a hundred thousand hearths in a cleaner world."

Raleigh smiled, sadly yet with a kind of wistful pride.

"God send it! And you?"

"I have a son of my body. That which I have sowed he may reap. He or his
son, or his son's son."

The morning had grown bright in the little room. Of the two the Admiral
now looked the younger. The fresh light showed the other like a wrinkled
piece of driftwood. He rose stiffly and moved towards the door.

"You have proved my David in good truth," said Raleigh. "This night
has gone far to heal me in soul and body. Faith, I have a mind to
breakfast.. .. What a miracle is our ancient England! French sire or no,
Jasper, you have that slow English patience that is like the patience of
God."

CHAPTER 9. THE REGICIDE

There was a sharp grue of ice in the air, as Mr. Nicholas Lovel climbed
the rickety wooden stairs to his lodgings in Chancery Lane hard by
Lincoln's Inn. That morning he had ridden in from his manor in the
Chilterns, and still wore his