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 with an armada of five-and-twenty ships, fresh from the

spoiling of Santiago and Santo Domingo, held the strong town of

Cartagena, and awaited the tardy forthcoming of the Spanish ransom. Week

piled itself upon week, and the full amount was yet lacking. When

negotiations prospered and the air was full of promise, Sir Francis and

all his captains and volunteers were most courteous, exchanging with

their enemies compliment and entertainment; when the Spanish

commissioners drew back, or when the morning report of the English dead

from fever or old injuries was long, half the day might be spent in the

deliberate sacking of some portion of the town. With the afternoon the

commissioners gave ground again, and like enough the evening ended with

some splendid love-feast between Spaniard and Englishman. On the morrow

came the usual hitch, the usual assurances that the gold of the town had

been buried (one knew not where) by its fleeing people, the usual proud

wheedling for the naming by the victors of a far lower ransom. Drake

having reaped more glory than gain from Santiago and Santo Domingo, was

now obstinate in his demand, but Carlisle, the Lieutenant-General,

counselled less rigorous terms, and John Nevil, who with two ships of

his own had joined Drake at the Terceiras, spoke of the fever.

"It is no common sickness. Each day sees a battle lost by us, won by the

Spaniard. You have held his strongest city for now five weeks. There are

other cities, other adventures upon which thou wilt fight again, and

again and again until thou diest, Frank Drake."

"There were a many dead this morning," put in Powell, the

sergeant-major. "There had been a many more were't not for the

friar's remedy."

Drake moved impatiently. "I would your miracle of St. Francis his return

had wrought itself somewhat sooner. Now it is late in the day,--though

God knows I am glad for the least of my poor fellows if he be raised

from his sickness through this or any other cure.... Captain Carlisle,

you will see to it that before night I have the opinion of all the land

captains touching our contentment with a moiety of the ransom and our

leave-taking of this place. Captain Cecil, you will speak for the

officers of the ships. Three nights from now the Governor feasts us yet

again, and on that night this matter shall be determined. Gentlemen, the

council is over."

As the group dissolved and the men began to move and speak with freedom,

Giles Arden touched 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 barricades, admirably constructed by

the Spaniards, but now in English possession. Beyond the barricades and

near the sea, where the low and narrow buildings were, lay the wounded

and the fever-stricken;--rude hospital enough! to some therein but a

baiting-place where pain and panic and the miseries of the brain were

become, for the time, their bed-fellows; to others the very house of

dissolution, a fast-crumbling shelter built upon the brim of the world,

with Death, the impartial beleaguer, already at the door. Arden turned

aside and joined the group about Drake, the great sea-captain in whose

company nor fear nor doubting melancholy could long hold place.

That night, shortly after the setting of the watch, Sir John Nevil, with

a man or two behind him, found himself challenged at the barricade of a

certain street, gave the word, and passed on, to behold immediately

before him and travelling the same road a dark, unattended figure. To

his sharp "Who goes there?" a familiar voice made answer, and Arden

paused until his friend and leader came up with him.

"A common road and a common goal," spoke Nevil.

"Ay!--common fools!" answered the other. "Who hearing of gray geese,

must think, forsooth, of a swan whose plumage turned from white to

black! And yet, God knows! to one, at least, the selfsame splendid swan;

if lost, then lost magnificently.... This is an idle errand."

"The youth is English," replied Nevil.

"Did you speak to Powell?"

"Ay; I told him that I should visit the hospital this night. We are

close at hand. Hark! that was the scream of a dying man. Christ rest

whatever soul hath taken flight!"

"There is a pale light surrounds this place," said Arden. "It comes from

the fires which they burn as though the black death were upon us. Do you

hear that groaning?--and there they carry out a weighted body. War!..."

A group of men moved towards them--Powell, a chirurgeon, a soldier or

two. Another minute and all were gathered before the hut of which Powell

had made mention. That worthy officer waved back their following, and

the three alone entered the dimly lighted place.

"The friar is not here," said Powell, in a tone of vexation. "Passing

this way, I did but look within to cheer the youth by some mention of

the honor that was intended him to-night. Now they tell me that the man

went to the forest ere sunset and hath not returned. Also that he gave

the youth a sleeping potion--"

"Which hath not brought sleep," answered Arden, who was keen of sight.

"I took it not!" cried out the half-risen form from its pallet in the

corner of the hut. "He thought I drank it, but when his head was turned

I threw it away. Master Arden! Master Arden! come over to me!"

Arden raised, embraced, supported the figure that, quivering with

weakness and excitement, might also feel the heaving breast, the

quickened heart-beats, of the man who held him. Nevil, in whom deep

emotion was not apt to show itself, knelt beside the pallet, and taking

the thin hands, caressed them like a very woman.

"Lad, lad," he whispered, "where is thy master? Is he dead? Or did he

leave thee here but now to search for simples?"

Robin-a-dale looked from one to the other, great eyes shining in a

thin, brown face. "Three years," he said,--"three years since we crept

away from Ferne House in a ship that was called--that was called--that

was called the _Sea Wraith._ But no trumpets sounded, and there was no

throng to shout farewell. Why was that? But I remember it was three

years ago." He laughed weakly. "I'm a man grown, Master Arden, but

here's still the rose noble which you gave me once.... No; I must have

lost it in the woods." He nodded sagely. "I remember; I lost it where

the river came over the great rock with a noise that made me think of a

little, sliding stream at home. It was Yuletide, but the flowers smelled

too sweet, and the great apes and the little monkeys sat in the red

trees and mocked me."

"He wanders again," said Powell, with vexation. "The friar can bring him

back with voice or touch, but not I!"

"Where is the _Sea Wraith_, Robin-a-dale? Answer me!" Nevil's voice

rose, cold and commanding, questioning this as any other derelict haled

before him.

[Illustration: "'LAD, LAD,' HE WHISPERED, 'WHERE IS THY MASTER?'"]

Instinctively Robin brought his wits somewhat together. "The _Sea

Wraith_," he echoed. "Why, that was long ago ... Sixscore men, we left

her hidden between the islet and the land until we should return.... Her

mariners were willing to be left--ay, and when I'm a knight I'll

maintain it!--their blood is not upon his hands.... But when six men

from that sixscore came again to the coast there was no ship,--so I

think that she sank some night, or maybe the Spaniards took her, or

maybe she grew tired and sailed away,--we were so long in winning back

from Panama."