A murmur ran the length of the table.  Mexia suddenly found himself of a steadier brain with somewhat stronger interest in rencontres new or old.  “Ha!  Sir Mortimer Ferne and his knot of velvet!  Don Luiz ground that beneath his heel....  Well, the man’s dead, no doubt.  I’ve wondered more than once if he lived or died; if he beat out his brains as he strove to do; if, thinking better o’t, he merely held his tongue and nursed his broken body; or if he cried aloud that which the old serpent De Guardiola made him believe, and henceforth travelled life’s highway a lazar!...  And that’s a curious thought:  leper to himself—­leper to his world—­leper’s cry—­leper’s mantle, with the cloth across his face—­and beneath it, all cleanliness, with not a soul but God to know it!” He gave his small, chuckling laugh.  “Oh, I, too, have thoughts; I, too, watch the play,—­Pedro Mexia, senors, is not so gross of wit as he is thought to be!”

Nevil leaned across the table.  “Leper to himself, and to his world!  But to God all cleanly beneath that mantle which he drew over his forehead and his eyes!  What do you mean?  Sir Mortimer Ferne declared himself a coward and a traitor!”

“So!” said Mexia.  “Well!  ’Twas falsely sworn.  Desmond was the man.”

Sir John turned with rapid speech to his host.  Alonzo Brava addressed Mexia, who roused himself to a fair appearance of sobriety.  “Worthy Don Pedro, all here, on both sides, have heard somewhat of this story.  I understand that the English hidalgo concerned is dead.  Don Luiz de Guardiola is in Spain.  We all know that a simple vengeance never sufficed for him who was of those who by their cruelties have brought such defamation upon our name in the Indies.  I see not that you do injury to Spanish honor by giving to our friends of one night as much as you know of this history.”

“Your relation will make us so greatly your debtor, Don Pedro,” said Drake, “that to-morrow, ere we sail, we will think of some such token as may justly show our appreciation of the trouble we now give you.  Wilt drink with me?”

The tankards clinked, the wine went down, and the flattered Mexia turned his round, empurpled countenance to Nevil.  “Why, see you,” he said, “’twas easy for Desmond to find the secret door in the upper room in the Friar’s house, and, stealing down by the stair between the walls to listen at the hidden grating until he had by heart your every plan—­but ’twas not so easy to escape to us!  It lacked half an hour of sunset when be brought that news which since noon Don Luiz had sought with fury to wring from the other.”

“From the other?”

“From Sir Mortimer Ferne.”