Later in the night Nevil and Arden, after fruitless search, came upon a space where the wall of Cartagena rose sheer above the water.  To-night the sea roared in their ears, but the storm had gone by, leaving upon the horizon a black and rugged bank of cloud rimmed by great beacon stars.  Down through a wide rift in the clouds streamed light from a haloed moon.  Beneath it, seated upon the stone, his hands clasped about his knees and a gleaming sword laid across them was the man they sought.  His head was lifted and the moon gave light enough by which to read the lineaments of a good knight and true, brave, of stainless honor, a lover of things of good repute, pure gold to his friends, generous to his foes, gentle to the weak, tender and pitiful of all who sinned or suffered.  He heard their footsteps on the stone, and, rising, went to meet them.  “It hath been a wonderful night,” he said.  “Look, how great is the ring about the moon! and the air after the storm blows from far countries....  They have come to me one after another—­all the men of the Cygnet, and the Phoenix, and the land force.  Henry Sedley sat beside me, with his arm about my shoulder; and Captain Robert Baldry and I have clasped hands, foregoing our quarrel.  And the crew of the Sea Wraith went by like shadows.  I know not if I did wrongly by them, but if it be so I will abide God’s judgment between us when I, too, am dead.  And I am not yet for the Low Countries, Arden!  I am for England—­England, England!”

They leaned against the parapet and looked out upon the now gleaming sea, the rack of the clouds and the broken cohorts of the stars.  They looked out to the glistening line where the water met the east.  “Homeward to-morrow!” said Arden, and Ferne asked, “What are thy ships, John?” and Nevil answered, “The one is the Mere Honour, the other I have very lately renamed the Cygnet.  Wilt be her captain, Mortimer, from here to Plymouth Port?”

* * * * *

The Countess of Pembroke, in mourning for her parents, was spending a midsummer month in leafy Penshurst.  It was a drowsy month, of roses fully blown and heavy lilies, of bees booming amongst all honey flowers, of shady copses and wide sunlit fields; and it was a quiet month because of the Countess’s mourning and because Philip Sidney was Governor of Flushing.  Therefore, save for now and then a messenger bringing news from London or Wilton or from that loved brother in the Netherlands, the Countess, her women, and a page or two made up the company at Penshurst.  The pages and the young gentlewomen (all under the eye of an aged majordomo) moved sedately in the old house, pacing soberly the gardens beneath the open casements; but when they reached the sweet rusticity of the outward ways, fruit-dropping orchards and sunny spaces, they were for lighter spirits, heels, and wits.  With laughter young hand caught at young hand, and fair forms circled swiftly an imaginary May-pole.