feet, pushed the heavy settle aside, and with a
somewhat disordered step went to the bed where lay Robin-a-dale. "He
will recover?" he asked, in a low voice, as Ferne came to his side.

"Ay, I think so," answered the other. "He will sleep throughout the
night, and the morn should find him stronger, more clear in mind.... I
am going now to the spital--no, no; I need no rest, and I have leave to
come and go."

The two descended together to the door of the great hall, whence Ferne
went his solitary way, and Arden stood to watch him out of sight. As the
latter turned to re-enter the house, he was aware of a small band of
men, English and Spanish, proceeding from Drake's lodging towards the
citadel, which, robbed of all ordnance and partly demolished, yet
sheltered the Governor, his officers, and sundry Spanish gentlemen.
To-day the envoy from the wealthy fugitives and owners of buried gold
had returned, and, evidently, to-night Drake and the Spanish
commissioners had again discussed the matter of ransom.

Arden, within the shadow, watched the little torchlit company of English
soldiery and Spanish officials cross his plane of vision. There was some
talking and laughter; an Englishman made a jest, and a Spaniard answered
with a proverb. The latter's voice struck some chord in Arden's memory,
but struck it faintly. "Now where have I heard that voice?" he asked,
but found no answer. The noise and the light passed onward to the
citadel, and with a brief good-night to a passing sentinel he himself
turned to take his rest.

The next day at noon Ferne deliberately, though with white lips and
half-closed eyelids, crossed the market square, and sought out Sir John
Nevil's quarters. By the soldiers in the great hall he was told that Sir
John was with the Admiral--would he wait? He nodded, and sat himself
down upon a settle in the hall. The guard and those who came and went
eyed him curiously; sometimes whispered words reached his ears. Once,
when he had waited a long time, a soldier brought him a jack of ale. He
drank of it gratefully and thanked the donor. The soldier fidgeted,
lowered his voice. "I fought under you, Sir Mortimer Ferne, at Fayal in
the Azores. You brought us that day out of the jaws of death, and we
swore you were too much for Don or devil!--and we drank to you that
evening, full measure of ale!--and we took our oath that we had served
far and near under many a captain, but none like you--"

Ferne smiled. "Was