it good, and the salt of life was strong in his nostrils.  Inwardly he prayed for the safety of the Mere Honour, and the Marigold, but that picture of the sinking Star he dismissed as far as might be from his mind.  She had been but a small ship—­notorious indeed for fights against great odds, for sheer bravado and hairbreadth escapes, but still a small ship, and not to be compared with the Cygnet.  No life had been forfeited, and Captain Robert Baldry must even digest as best he might his private loss and discomfiture.  If, as he walked to his place of honor, and as he stood with English gentlemen about him, with English sailors and soldiers ranged before him giving thanks for deliverance from danger, the Captain of the Cygnet held too high his head; if he at that moment looked upon his life with too conscious a pride, knew too well the difference between himself, steadfast helmsman of all his being, and that untutored nature which drove another from rock to shoal, from shoal to quicksand—­yet that knowledge, detestable to all the gods, dragged at his soul but for a moment.  He bent his head and prayed for the missing ships, and most heartily for John Nevil, his Admiral, whom he loved; then for Damaris Sedley that she be kept in health and joyousness of mind; and lastly, believing that he but plead for the success of an English expedition against Spain and Antichrist, he prayed for gold and power, a sovereign’s gratitude and man’s acclaim.

Three days later they came to Teneriffe, and to their great rejoicing found there the Mere Honour and the Marigold.  The Admiral signalled a council; and Ferne, taking with him Giles Arden, Sedley, and the Captain of the sunken Star, went aboard the Mere Honour, where he was shortly joined by Baptist Manwood from the Marigold, with his lieutenants Wynch and Paget.  In his state-cabin, when he had given his Captains welcome, the Admiral sat at table with his wine before him and heard how had fared the Cygnet and the Marigold, then listened to Baldry’s curt recital of the Star’s ill destinies.  The story ended, he gave his meed of grave sympathy to the man whose whole estate had been that sunken ship.  Baldry sat silent, fingering, as was his continual trick, the hilt of his great Andrew Ferrara.  But when the Admiral, with his slow, deliberate courtesy, went on to propose that for this adventure Captain Baldry cast his lot with the Mere Honour, he listened, then gave unexpected check.

“I’ faith, his berth upon the Cygnet liked him well enough, and though he thanked the Admiral, what reason for changing it?  In fine, he should not budge, unless, indeed, Sir Mortimer Ferne—­” He turned himself squarely so as to face the Captain of the Cygnet.