“That also,” he answered.  “An I should die before our swords cross, that also!”

He turned and left the cabin.

“Now,” said Arden, as his heavy footsteps died away, “I had rather gather snow for the Grand Turk than rubies with some I wot of!”

Henry Sedley, a hot red in his cheek, and his dark hair thrown back, turned from staring after the retreating figure.  “If I send him my cartel, Sir Mortimer, wilt put me in irons?”

“Ay, that will I,” said Ferne, calmly.  “Word and deed he but doth after his kind.  Well, let him go.  For his words, that a man’s deeds do haunt him, rising like shadows across his path, I believe full well—­but for me the master of the Speedwell makes no stirring....  Take thy lute, Henry Sedley, and sing to us, giving honey after gall!  Sing to me of other things than war.”

As he spoke he moved to the stern windows, took his seat upon the bench beneath, and leaning on his arm, looked out upon the low red sun and the darkening ocean.

“’Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread: 
For love is dead: 
Love is dead, infected
With plague of deep disdain—­’”

sang Sedley with throbbing sweetness, depth of melancholy passion.  The listener’s spirit left its chafing, left pride and disdain, and drifted on that melodious tide to far heavens.

“’Weep, neighbors, weep; do you not hear it said
That Love is dead? 
His death-bed peacock’s folly;
His winding sheet is shame;
His will false-seeming wholly;
His sole executor blame!’”

rang Sedley’s splendid voice.  The song ended; the sun sank; on came the invader night.  Ferne took the lute and slowly swept its strings.

“How much, how little of it all is peacock’s folly,” he said; “who knoweth?  Life and Living, Love and Hate, and Honor the bubble, and Shame the Nessus-robe, and Death, which, when all’s done, may have no answer to the riddle!—­Where is the fixed star, and who knoweth depth from shallow, or himself, or anything?” He struck the lute again, drawing from it a lingering and mournful note.

“Now out upon the man who brought melancholy into fashion!” ejaculated Arden.  “In danger the blithest soul alive, when all is well you do ask yourself too many questions!  I’ll go companion with Robert Baldry, who keeps no fashions save of Mars’s devising.”

“Why, I am not sad,” said Ferne, rousing himself.  “Come, I’ll dice with thee for fifty ducats and a gold jewel—­to be paid from the first ship we take!”

On sailed the ships through tranquil seas, until many days had fallen into their wake, slipping by them like painted clouds of floating seaweed or silver-finned vagrants of the deep.  Great calms brooded upon the water, and the sails fell idle, flag and pennant drooped; then the trade-wind blew, and the white ships drove on.  They drove into the blue distance, towards unknown ports—­known only in that