at 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