Drake, after his hearty fashion, clapped his arm about Sir John’s shoulder, calling him “dear Nevil.”  Arden, with whom he had slighter acquaintance, he also greeted, while Powell was his “good Powell, his trusty Anthony.”  There was a slight shifting in the smaller group, Nevil by a backward step or two bringing into line the man who stood beside the litter.  Drake turned.  “Give you godden, Sir Mortimer Ferne!  Our hearty thanks, moreover, for the good service you have done us.”

He spoke loudly, that all might hear.  If beneath the bluff good-fellowship of word and voice there was any undercurrent of coldness or misliking, only one or two, besides the man who bowed to him in silence, might guess it.  By now every man about the market-cross was at attention.  Rumors had been rife that day.  Neither at home in England nor here in Spanish dominions was there English soldier or sailor who knew not name and record of Sir Mortimer Ferne.  Among the adventurers about the market-cross were not lacking men who in old days had viewed, admired, envied, and, for final tribute, contemned him.  These broke ranks, pressing as closely as was mannerly towards the group about the litter.  All gaped at Drake’s words of amity, at Sir John Nevil’s grave smile, and Carlisle’s friendly face, but most of all at that one who had been the peer of great captains, but who now stood amongst them undetached, ghost-like, a visitant from the drear world of the dishonored dead.  The palm-trees edging the square began to wave and rustle in the wind; the youth upon the litter moved restlessly, uttering moaning and incomprehensible words.  Drake was speaking to Arden and others of the gentlemen adventurers.

“What ails you?” murmured Nevil, at Ferne’s ear.  “There is sweat upon your forehead, and you hold yourself as rigid as the dead.  Your touch is icy cold.”

“I burn,” answered the other, in as low a tone.  “Let us go hence.”

Nevil motioned to the bearers, who raised the litter and began again their progress across the square.  Drake turned from those to whom he had been speaking.  “Will ye be going?  You shall sup with us to-night, John Nevil!  Master Arden, I do desire your better acquaintance.  Captain Powell, you will stay with me who have some words for your ear.  Sir Mortimer Ferne, I trust you will recover your servant, as you have recovered so many of our poor fellows”—­his voice dropped until it was audible only to the three or four who made his immediate circle,—­“as you have wellnigh recovered yourself.”

Generous as he was, he had not meant to go so far.  He had yet his doubts, his reversions, in mind, to those sheer facts which none denied.  This was a recreant knight—­but also a man who had suffered long and greatly, who, if eye and intuition could be trusted, suffered now.  He hesitated a moment, then abruptly held out his hand.

All saw the gesture, and a sudden hush fell upon the company.  If these two touched hands, then in that moment would be spanned the distance between the star in the ascendant and the wavering marsh-light, between the sea-colossus and his one-time rival, now so long overwhelmed and chained to sterile earth.