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 bar