Athwart his laughing words came from the lower end of the board a deep and harsh voice.  The speaker was Captain Robert Baldry of the Star, and he used the deliberation of one who in his drinking had gone far and fast.  “I pledge all scholars turned soldiers,” he said, “all courtiers who stay not at court, all poets who win tall ships at the point of a canzonetta!  Did Sir Mortimer Ferne make verses—­elegies and epitaphs and such toys—­at Fayal in the Azores two years ago?”

There followed his speech, heard of all in the room, a moment of amazed silence.  Mortimer Ferne put his tankard softly down and turned in his seat so that he might more closely observe his fellow adventurer.

“For myself, when an Armada is at my heels, the cares of the moon do not concern me,” went on Baldry, with the gravity of an oracle.  “Had Nero not fiddled, perhaps Rome had not burned.”

“And where got you that information, sir?” asked his host, in a most courtier-like voice.

“Oh, in the streets of Rome, a thousand years ago!  ’Twas common talk.”  The Captain of the Star tilted his cup and was grieved to find it empty.

“I have later news,” said the other, as smoothly as before.  “At Fayal in the Azores—­”

He was interrupted by Sir John Nevil, who had risen from his chair, and beneath whose stare of surprise and anger Baldry, being far from actual drunkenness, moved uneasily.

“I will speak, Mortimer,” said the Admiral, “Captain Baldry not being my guest.  Sir, at Fayal in the Azores that disastrous day we did what we could—­mortal men can do no more.  Taken by surprise as we were, ships were lost and brave men tasted death, but there was no shame.  He who held command that lamentable day was Captain—­now Sir Mortimer—­Ferne; for I, who was Admiral of the expedition, must lie in my cabin, ill almost unto death of a calenture.  I dare aver that no wiser head ever drew safety for many from such extremity of peril, and no readier sword ever dearly avenged one day’s defeat and loss.  Your news, sir, was false.  I drink to a gentleman of known discretion, proved courage, unstained honor—­”

It needed not the glance of his eye to bring men to their feet.  They rose, courtiers and university wits, soldiers home from the Low Countries, kinsmen and country friends, wealthy merchants who had staked their gold in this and other voyages, adventurers who with Frobisher and Gilbert had sailed the icy seas, or with Drake and Hawkins had gazed upon the Southern Cross, Captain Baptist Manwood, of the Marigold, Lieutenant Ambrose Wynch, Giles Arden, Anthony Paget, good men and tall, who greatly prized the man who alone kept his seat, smiling upon them from the head of the long table in the Triple Tun’s best room.  Baldry, muttering in his beard that he had made a throw amiss and that the wine was to blame, stumbled to his feet and stood with the rest.  “Sir Mortimer Ferne!” cried they all, and drank to the seated figure.  The name was loudly called, and thus it was no slight tide of sound which bore it, that high noon in the year 158-, into the busy London street.  Bow Bells were ringing, and to the boy in blue and silver upon the bench without the door they seemed to take the words and sound them again and again, deeply, clearly, above the voices of the city.