Robin regarded them anxiously, for to Nevil at least he had always
spoken truth, and now he dimly wondered within himself if he were lying.
"The nest at Nueva Cordoba was empty," he explained. "The hawk had
killed the sparrows and flown far away to Panama."
"And the eagle followed the hawk," muttered Arden. "Was there not one
sparrow left alive, Robin?"
Robin mournfully shook his head. "The commoner sort went to the galleys;
others were burned.... Is this city named Cartagena? Then 'twas in this
city Captain Robert Baldry and Ralph Walter and more than they, dressed
in _sanbenitos_, burning in the market-place.... We learned this at
Margarita, so my master would go to Panama to wring the hawk's neck....
But the _Sea Wraith_ was heavy with gold and silver, and all the
scoundrels upon her wished to turn homewards. But he bore them down, and
there was a compact made and signed. For them all the treasure that we
had gotten or should get, and for him their help to Panama that he might
take his private vengeance.... And so we put on all sail and we coasted
a many days, sometimes fighting and sometimes not, until we drew in
towards the land and found a little harbor masked by an islet and near
to a river. And a third of our men we left with the _Sea Wraith_. But
Sir Mortimer Ferne and I--my name is Robin-a-dale--we took all the boats
to go as far as we might by way of the river. And my master rowed
strongly in the first boat, and I rowed strongly in the second, for we
rowed for hate and love; but the other boats came on feebly, for they
were rowed by ghosts--"
Arden moved beneath the emaciated form he held, and Powell uttered an
ejaculation. But John Nevil used command.
"Back, sirrah! to the truth," and the crowding fancies gave ground
again.
"It was the Indians who shot at us poisoned arrows. They made ghosts of
many rowers. Ha! in all my nineteen years I have not seen an uglier
death! That was why we must leave the river, hiding the boats against
the time that we returned that way ... returned that way."
"You went on through the woods towards Panama. And then--" Nevil's voice
rose again.
"The wrath of God!" answered the boy, and turning within Arden's clasp,
began to babble of London streets and the Triple Tun. The claw-like
hands had dragged themselves from Nevil's hold, and the spirit could be
no longer caught by the voice of authority, but wandered where it would.
The men about him waited long and vainly for some turn of the tide. It
drew towards midnight, and Robin yet babbled of all things under the sun
saving only of a man that had left England now three years agone. At
last Nevil arose, spoke a few words to Arden, who nodded assent; then,
with Powell, moved to the door.
"When will this friar return?" he asked, as they crossed the threshold.
"I do not know," Powell answered. "With the dawn, perhaps. He will not
be long gone."
"Perhaps he will not come at all," said the other. "You say that the boy
is out of danger. Perhaps he hath returned to the Indians whom you say
he teacheth."
Powell shook his head. "Here are too many sick and dying," he said,
simply. "He will come back. I swear to you, Sir John Nevil, that in this
pestilent camp between the city and the sea we do think of this man not
as a Spaniard--if he be Spaniard--nor as monk--if he be monk! He hath
power over this fever, and those whom he cannot cure yet cry out for him
to help them die!"
There was a silence, followed by Sir John's slow speech. "When he
returns send him at once under guard to my quarters--I will make good
the matter with Sir Francis. Speak the man fair, good Powell, give him
gentle treatment, but see to it that he escape you not.... Here are my
men. Good-night."
Three hours later to Nevil, yet dressed, yet sitting deep in thought
within his starlit chamber, came a messenger from the captain of the
watch. "The man whom Sir John Nevil wot of was below. What disposition
until the morning--"
"Bring him to me here," was the answer. "Stay!--there are candles upon
the table. Light one."
The soldier, drawing from his pouch flint, steel, and tinder-box,
obeyed, then saluted and withdrew. There was a short silence, followed
by the sound of feet upon the stone stairs and a knock at the door, and
upon Nevil's "Enter!" by the appearance of a sergeant and several
soldiers--in the midst of them a figure erect, composed, gowned,
and cowled.
The one candle dimly lit the room. "Will you stand aside, sir?" said
Nevil to his captive. "Now, sergeant--"
The sergeant made a brief report.
"Await, you and your men, in the hall below," ordered Nevil. "You have
not bound your prisoner? That is well. Now go, leaving him here alone."
The heavy door closed to. Upon the table stood two great gilt
candelabra bearing many candles, a fragment of the spoil of Cartagena.
Nevil, taking from its socket the one lighted taper, began to apply the
flame to its waxen fellows. As the chamber grew more and more brilliant,
the friar, standing with folded arms, made no motion to break the
profound stillness, but with the lighting of the last candle he thrust
far back the cowl that partly hid his countenance, then moved with an
even step to the table, and raising with both hands the great
candelabrum, held it aloft. The radiance that flooded him, showing every
line and lineament, was not more silvery white than the hair upon his
head; but brows and lashes were as deeply brown as the somewhat sunken
eyes, nor was the face an old man's face. It was lined, quiet,
beautiful, with lips somewhat too sternly patient and eyes too sad, for
all their kindly wisdom. The friar's gown could not disguise the form
beneath; the friar's sleeve, backfallen from the arm which held on high
the branching lights, disclosed deep scars.... Down-streaming light, the
hour, the stillness--a soul unsteadfast would have shrunk as from an
apparition. Nevil stood his ground, the table between him and his guest
of three years' burial from English ken. Both men were pale, but their
gaze did not waver. So earnestly did they regard each other, eyes
looking into eyes, that without words much knowledge of inner things
passed between them. At last, "Greet you well, Mortimer Ferne," came
from one, and from the other, "Greet you well, John Nevil."
The speaker lowered the candelabrum and set it upon the table. "You
might have spared the sergeant his pains. To-day I should have
sought you out."
"Why not before to-day?"
"I have been busy," said the other, simply. "Long ago the Indians taught
me a sure remedy for this fever. There was need down yonder for the
cure.... Moreover, pride and I have battled once again. To-night, in the
darkness, by God's grace, I won.... It is good to see thy face, to hear
thy voice, John Nevil."
The tall tapers gave so great and clear a light that there was no shadow
for either countenance. In Nevil's agitation had begun to gather, but
his opposite showed as yet only a certain worn majesty of peace.
Neither man had moved; each stood erect, with the heavy wood like a
judgment bar between them. Perhaps some noise among the soldiers below,
some memory that the other had entered the room as a prisoner, brought
such a fancy to Nevil's mind, for now he hastily left his position and
crossed to the bench beneath the wide window. The man from the grave of
the South-American forest followed. Sir John stretched out his hand and
touched the heavy woollen robe that swept from bared throat to rudely
sandalled feet.
"This?" he questioned.
The other faintly smiled. "I found it many months agone in a village of
the Chaymas. I was nigh to nakedness, and it has served me well. It is
only a gown. This"--he touched the knotted girdle--"but a piece
of rope."
"I have seen the boy, Robin-a-dale," said Nevil.
The other inclined his head. "Captain Powell told me as much an hour
ago, and also that by some slip my poor knave slept not, as I had meant
he should, but babbled of old things which have wellnigh turned his
wits. He must not stay in this land, but back to England to feel the
snow in his face, to hear the cuckoo and the lark, to serve you or Arden
or Philip Sidney. What ancient news hath he given you?"
"You went overland to Panama."
"Ay,--a dreadful journey--a most dreadful return ... Don Luiz de
Guardiola was not at Panama. With a strong escort he had gone three days
before to San Juan de Ulloa, whence he sailed for Spain."
A long silence; then said Nevil: "There is no passion in your face, and
your voice is grave and sweet. I thank God that he was gone, and that
your soul has turned from vengeance."
"Ay, my soul hath turned from vengeance," echoed the other. "It is now a
long time that, save for Robin, I have dwelt alone with God His beauty
and God His terror. I have taught a savage people, and in teaching I
have learned." He moved, and with his knee upon the window-seat, looked
out upon the fading stars. "But the blood," he said,--"the blood upon my
hands! I know not if one man who sailed with me upon the _Sea Wraith_ be
alive. Certes, all are dead who went with me a fearful way to find that
Spaniard who is safe in Spain. Six men we reached again the seashore,
but the ship was gone. One by one, as we wandered, the four men died....
Then Robin and I went upward and onward to the mountains."
"When you left England your cause was just," said Nevil, with emotion.
"Ay, I think it was so," Sir Mortimer replied. "At home I was forever
naught; on these seas I might yet serve my Queen, though with a shrunken
arm. And Robert Baldry with many another whom I had betrayed might yet
languish in miserable life. God knows! perhaps I thought that God might
work a miracle.... But at Margarita--"
"I know--I know," interrupted Nevil. "Robin told us."
"Then at Margarita," continued the other, "I forgot all else but my
revenge upon the man who had wrought disaster to my soul, who had dashed
from my hand even that poor salve which might and might not have
somewhat eased my mortal wound. Was he at Panama? Then to Panama would I
go. In Ultima Thule? Then in Ultima Thule he should not escape me.... I
bent the mariners and soldiers of the _Sea Wraith_ to my will. I
promised them gold; I promised them joyous life and an easy task--I know
not what I promised them, for my heart was a hot coal within my breast,
and there seemed no desirable thing under the sun other than a shortened
sword and my hand upon the throat of Don Luiz de Guardiola. They went
with me upon my private quarrel, and they died. Ah, well! It has been
long ago!" His breath came in a heavy sigh. "I am not now so keen a
hunter for my own. In God's hands is justice as well as mercy, and when
death throws down the warder I shall understand. In the mean while I
await--I that speak to you now and I that betrayed you four
years agone."
He turned from the window, and the two again stood face to face.
"I am a child at school," said Ferne. "There was a time when I thought
to keep for bed-fellow pride as well as shame; when I said, 'I am
coward, I am traitor,' and put to my lips the cup of gall, but yet I
drank it not with humility and a bowed heart.... I do not think, John,
that I ever asked you to forgive me.... Forgive me!"
On the part of each man there was an involuntary movement, ending in a
long and mute embrace. Each touched with his lips the other's cheek,
then they sat with clasped hands in eloquent silence, while the candles
paled in the approaching dawn. At last Sir Mortimer spoke:
"You will let me go now, John? There are many sick men down by the sea,
and Robin will grow restless--perhaps will call my name aloud."
Arising from the window-seat, Nevil paced the room, then returned to the
sometime Captain of the _Cygnet_. "Two things and I will let you go
where you do the Queen and Francis Drake yeoman service. You will not
slip a silken leash, but will abide with us in this town?"
"Ay," was the answer, "until your sick are recovered and your mariners
are making sail I will stay."
Nevil hesitated. "For the present I accept your 'until.' And now I ask
you to throw off this disguise. We are men of a like height and make.
Yonder within the chamber are suits from which you may choose. Pray you
dress at once."
A faint red swept into the other's countenance. "If I do as you bid, I
may not go unrecognized. I say not, 'Spare me this, John Nevil!' I only
ask, 'Is it wise?'... Sir Francis Drake is commander here. Four years
ago he swore that you were too merciful, that in your place he would
have played hangsman to me more blithely than he played headsman to
Thomas Doughty."
"I sail not under Francis Drake," Nevil answered. "Meeting me with two
goodly ships at the Terceiras, he was fain enough to have me join my
force to his. Over my own I hold command, and I shall claim you as my
own. But you have no fear of Francis Drake! Is it your thought that your
shield is forever reversed, and that you are only welcome, only
unashamed, yonder where sickness stretches forth its hands, and Death
gives back before you? If it is so, yet be that which you are!--No
Spanish friar, but English knight and gentleman. If it be known to high
and low that once you fell, then face that knowledge with humility of
heart, with simplicity, but with the outward ease and bearing of that
estate in which God placed you. This garb becomes you not, who are yet
a soldier of England. Away with it!--then in singleness of mind press
onward along thy rocky road until God calls thee at last to His green
meadows, to His high city. Ah, my friend! I give but poor and meagre
words to that I read within thy eyes. There is no need for me to speak
at all when thy lit soul looks out upon me!"
The dawn began to show faint splendors, and the winds of morning drove
aslant the candle flames. Ferne shook his head and his countenance
darkened somewhat with vain regrets and sharp memories of old agonies.
"Not that, my friend! I am changed, but God knows--not I--what other
change would come did He lift His rod. Once I thought I knew all right
from all wrong, all darkness from all light--yea, and I strove to
practise that knowledge.... I think now that to every man may come an
hour when pride and assurance go down--when for evermore he hath that
wisdom that he no longer knows himself." He smiled. "But I will do what
you ask, John. It were strange, were it not, if I refused you this?" As
he passed Nevil, the two touched hands again. Another moment and the
door of the inner room closed upon him. Sir John, awaiting his return,
began to quench the candles one by one, for there was no need of other
light than the flooding dawn.
Some minutes had passed, when a knock at the outward door interrupted
his employment. Crossing the floor, he opened to Sir Francis Drake, who
stood alone upon the threshold, his escort trampling down the stone
stairs to the hall beneath. Nevil uttered an exclamation, which the
other met with his bluff, short laugh.
"So you as well as I have let the jade Sleep slip by this night!" He
brushed past Nevil into the room. "I gave it up an hour agone, and am
come to take counsel before breakfast. At the nooning Carlisle and Cecil
will bring me the opinions of the captains, land and sea. I know already
their conclusion and my answer. But I deny not that 'twill be a bitter
draught." He did not take the great chair which Nevil indicated, but
kept on to the window, where with a sound, half sigh, half oath, he
flung himself down upon the broad seat.
"I' faith, John Nevil, I know not why I am here, seeing that your
counsel has been given us, unless it be that you have more wisdom than
most, and may somewhat sweeten this course which, mark you! I stand
ready to take, or sweet or bitter, if thereby the Queen is best
served.... The officer whom this Governor sent out days ago in search of
these wealthy fugitives from the town--these rich people who starve on
gold and silver dishes--hath returned with some report or other as to
the treasure. What think you if at this coming feast--"
Said Nevil abruptly: "Let us not speak of such matters here, Frank! I am
fully dressed; let us go into the air!"
Drake stared. "And be observed of all that we hold counsel together!
What's wrong with the room?" Glancing narrowly from wall to wall, he
came suddenly to a realization of the presence of a third person--a
stranger, dressed in some dark, rich stuff, who stood with folded arms
against the door which he had closed behind him. Distinction of form,
distinction of the quiet face, distinction of white hair, so incongruous
and yet, strangely enough, the last and stateliest touch of all--after a
moment of startled scrutiny Drake leaned forward, keen eyes beneath
shaggy brows, one hand tugging at his beard. "Who are you, sir?"
he asked.
Nevil interposed. "He is under my command--a volunteer for whom I alone
am responsible."
The figure against the door advanced a pace or two. "I am Mortimer
Ferne, Sir Francis Drake."
There was a pause, while Drake, staring as at one just risen from the
dead, got slowly to his feet.
"Long ago," continued the apparition, "we had some slight
acquaintance--but now 'tis natural that you know me not.... I pray you
to believe me that until you drew near the window I thought Sir John
Nevil alone in the room; moreover, that I have heard no word of counsel,
saving only the word itself."
"I hear you, sir," answered Drake, icily. "Fair words and smooth--oh,
very courtier-like words! Oh, your very good assurance!--but I choose my
own assurance, which dwells in the fact that naught has been said to
which the Spaniard is not welcome!"
Nevil drew in his breath with a grieved, impatient sigh, but Sir
Mortimer stood motionless, nor seemed to care to find answering words.
The blood had mounted to his brow, but the eyes which gazed past the
speaker into the magnificent heart of the dawn were very clear, very
patient. Moments passed while Drake, the great sea-captain, sat,
striking his booted foot upon the floor, looking from Nevil, who had
regained his usual calm, to the man with whom oblivion had no more to
do. Suddenly he spoke:
"You are he who in the guise of a Spanish friar hath nursed our sick?
Give you thanks!... Which of your ships, John Nevil, do you make over to
this--this gentleman?"
Nevil, drawing himself up, would have answered with haughtiness, but
with a quick gesture of entreaty Ferne himself took the word.
"Sir Francis Drake--Sir John Nevil," he said, "I pray that, because of
me, you come not to cold words and looks which sort not with your noble
friendship! I shall never again, Sir Francis Drake, command any ship
whatsoever, hold any office, be other than I am,--a man so broken, so
holpen by Almighty God, that he needs not earthly praise or blame.... I
have a servant ill within the camp who will fret at my absence. Wilt let
me begone, John?--but you must first explain to the sergeant this my
transformation. Sir Francis Drake, so long as you tarry in Cartagena I
submit myself to what restriction, what surveillance, upon which you and
my former Admiral may determine."
"I will let you go but for a time," Nevil answered, firmly. "Later, I
shall send for you and Robin to some fitter lodging." He turned to
Drake. "Frank--Frank Drake, I but give again to all our sick the man to
whom, under God, is owed this abatement of the fever. I pray you to
await me here while I myself deliver him to the sergeant below. It is
necessary, for he entered this room in disguise, who goes forth clad
again as an English gentleman. Then will I tell you a story which I
think that, four years agone, may have been given you rather by a man's
foes than by his friends--and another story of deep repentance and of
God's path, which is not our path;--and Francis Drake hath indeed
changed overnight if he make of this a quarrel between him and John
Nevil, or if he be not generously moved towards this gentleman whom I
count as my friend and follower!"
"I will wait," said Drake, after a pause. "Give you good-day, sir. Your
service to our sick is known, and for it our thanks are due. At the
present I can say no more."
Ferne bowed in silence, then, with Nevil, left the room for the hall
below, where the startled sergeant and his men saluted indeed Sir John
Nevil, but kept their eyes upon the figure at his side.
Nevil, beckoning to the sergeant, drew off a few paces and gave in a
lowered voice instructions to be borne to Captain Powell. Then the one
knight mounted to the room where Drake awaited him, and the other went,
guarded, through the tropic morn to the fevered and the restless, who
yearned for him as the sick may yearn, and to the hut where Arden strove
to restrain Robin-a-dale's cries for his master.