“We will shape our course for Teneriffe, where (I pray to God) we may find the Mere Honour and the Marigold.  If it please Captain Baldry to then remove into the Mere Honour, I make no doubt that the Admiral will welcome so notable a recruit.  In the mean time your men shall be cared for, and you yourself will command me, sir, in all things that concern your welfare.”

Baldry shot him a look.  “I am no maker of pretty speeches,” he said.  “You have me in irons.  Pray you, show me some dungeon and give me leave to be alone.”

Young Sedley, hotly indignant, muttered something, that was echoed by the little throng of gentlemen adventurers sailing with Sir Mortimer Ferne.  Arden, leaning against the mast, coolly observant of all, began to whistle,

     “’Of honey and of gall in love there is store: 
     The honey is much, but the gall is more,’”

thereby bringing upon himself one of Baldry’s black glances.

“Lieutenant Sedley,” ordered Ferne, sharply, “you will lodge this gentleman in the cabin next mine own, seeing that he hath all needful entertainment.  Sir, I do expect your company at dinner.”

He bowed, then stood at his full height, while Baldry sufficiently bethought himself to in some sort return the salute, even to give grudging, half—­insolent acknowledgment of the debt he owed the Cygnet.  At last he went below—­to refuse the bread and meat, but to drink deep of the aqua vita which Sedley stiffly offered; then to lock himself in his cabin, bite his nails with rage, and finally, when he had stared at the sea for a long time, to sink his head into his hands and weep a man’s tears for irrevocable loss.

Of his fellow adventurers whom he left upon the poop, only Mortimer Ferne held his tongue from blame of his insupportable temper, or refrained from stories of the Star’s exploits.  The Cygnet was under way, the wind favorable, her white and swelling canvas like clouds against a bright-blue sky, the dolphins playing about her rushing prow, where a golden lady forever kept her eyes upon the deep.  In the wind, timber and cordage creaked and sang, while from waist and main-deck came a cheerful sound of men at work repairing what damage the storm had wrought.  Thynne the master gave orders in his rumbling bass, then the drum beat for morning service, and, after the godly fashion of the time, there poured from the forecastle, to worship the Lord, mariners and landsmen, gunners, harquebusiers, crossbow and pike men, cabin and powder boys, cook, chirurgeon, and carpenter—­all the varied force of that floating castle destined to be dashed like a battering-ram against the power of Spain.  The Captain of them all, with his gentlemen and officers about him, paused a moment before moving to his accustomed place, and looked upon his ship from stem to stern, from the thronged decks to the topmost pennant flaunting the sunshine.  He found