“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.

XII

During the afternoon came an order to Captain Powell that the sick youth should be taken to Sir Mortimer Ferne’s apartment in the house where lodged Master Arden.  Thus it was that in the cooler air before sunset a litter was borne through the streets of Cartagena.  In addition to the bearers and some other slight attendance there walked with it Sir John Nevil and Captain Powell, Giles Arden and Sir Mortimer Ferne.  Sometimes the latter laid his hand upon the youth’s burning forehead, sometimes upon the lips which would have babbled overmuch.  Bearers and escort stared and stared.  One who had been about the spital, and had seen a brother brought from under the shadow of death, repeatedly stumbled because he could not take his eyes from the friar become English gentleman—­become friend of so great a gentleman as Sir John Nevil.