“And where, when the ships have brought us home, do you go, Mortimer?”

“To the Low Countries.  Seeing that I go as a private soldier, John Nevil may easily gain me leave.  And thou, Giles, I know, wilt give me money with which I may arm me and may cross to the English camp.  I am glad that Philip Sidney becomes my general.  Although I fight afoot, in the long trenches or with the pike-men and the harquebusiers, yet may I joy to look upon him, flashing past, all gilded like St. George, with the great banner flying, leading the wild charge—­the shouts of his horsemen behind him—­”

Arden sprang to his feet, pushed the heavy settle aside, and with a somewhat disordered step went to the bed where lay Robin-a-dale.  “He will recover?” he asked, in a low voice, as Ferne came to his side.

“Ay, I think so,” answered the other.  “He will sleep throughout the night, and the morn should find him stronger, more clear in mind....  I am going now to the spital—­no, no; I need no rest, and I have leave to come and go.”

The two descended together to the door of the great hall, whence Ferne went his solitary way, and Arden stood to watch him out of sight.  As the latter turned to re-enter the house, he was aware of a small band of men, English and Spanish, proceeding from Drake’s lodging towards the citadel, which, robbed of all ordnance and partly demolished, yet sheltered the Governor, his officers, and sundry Spanish gentlemen.  To-day the envoy from the wealthy fugitives and owners of buried gold had returned, and, evidently, to-night Drake and the Spanish commissioners had again discussed the matter of ransom.

Arden, within the shadow, watched the little torchlit company of English soldiery and Spanish officials cross his plane of vision.  There was some talking and laughter; an Englishman made a jest, and a Spaniard answered with a proverb.  The latter’s voice struck some chord in Arden’s memory, but struck it faintly.  “Now where have I heard that voice?” he asked, but found no answer.  The noise and the light passed onward to the citadel, and with a brief good-night to a passing sentinel he himself turned to take his rest.

The next day at noon Ferne deliberately, though with white lips and half-closed eyelids, crossed the market square, and sought out Sir John Nevil’s quarters.  By the soldiers in the great hall he was told that Sir John was with the Admiral—­would he wait?  He nodded, and sat himself down upon a settle in the hall.  The guard and those who came and went eyed him curiously; sometimes whispered words reached his ears.  Once, when he had waited a long time, a soldier brought him a jack of ale.  He drank of it gratefully and thanked the donor.  The soldier fidgeted, lowered his voice.  “I fought under you, Sir Mortimer Ferne, at Fayal in the Azores.  You brought us that day out of the jaws of death, and we swore you were too much for Don or devil!—­and we drank to you that evening, full measure of ale!—­and we took our oath that we had served far and near under many a captain, but none like you—­”