“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.”

There was a deep exclamation from his listeners.  “From Panama!”

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.”