it came as a tumultuous passion, an irrational joy, a dazzling bandage to their eyes, beneath which they saw, with an inner vision, wealth a growing snowball and victory their familiar spirit.  Among the adventurers from the Cygnet there was, moreover, an intoxication of feeling for the man who had led them in that desperate battle, whose subtle gift it was to strike fire from every soul whose circle touched his own.  He was to them among ten thousand the Captain of their choice, not loved the least because of that quality in him which gave ever just the praise which bred strong longing for desert of fame.  Now he stood beside the Admiral, and spoke with ardor of the Englishmen who had won that fight, and very tenderly of the dead.  They were not a few, for the battle had been long and doubtful.  Simply and nobly he spoke, giving praise to thirsty souls.  When he had made an end, there was first a silence more eloquent than speech, pregnant with the joy a man may take in his deed when he looks upon it and sees that it is good; then a wild cheer, thrice repeated, for Sir Mortimer Ferne.  The name went out of the windows over the sea, and up to every man who sailed the ship.  One moment Ferne stood, tasting his reward; then, “Silence, friends!” he said.  “To God the victory!  And I hear naught of New Cadiz and other fortunate ships.”  He drew swiftly from its sling his wounded arm and waved it above his head.  “The Admiral!” he cried, and then, “The Marigold!”

When at last there was quiet in the cabin, Nevil, a man of Humphrey Gilbert’s type, too lofty of mind to care who did the service, so that the service was done, began to speak of the captured galleon.  “A noble ship—­the Star come again, glorious in her resurrection robes!  Who shall be her captain, teaching her to eschew old ways and serve the Queen?” His eyes rested upon the galleon’s conqueror.  “Sir Mortimer Ferne, the election lies with you.”

Ferne started sharply.  “Sir, it is an honor I do not desire!  As Admiral, I pray you to name the Captain of the Phoenix.”

A breathless hush fell upon the cabin.  It was a great thing to be captain of a great ship—­so great a thing, so great a chance, that of the adventurers who had bravely fought on yesterday more than one felt his cheek grow hot and the blood drum in his ears.  Arden cared not for preferment, but Henry Sedley’s eyes were very eager.  Baldry, having no hopes of favor, sat like a stone, his great frame rigid, his nails white upon the hilt of his sword, his lips white and sneering beneath his short, black, strongly curling beard.

The pause seemed of the longest; then, “Not so,” said the Admiral, quietly.  “It is your right.  We know that you will make no swerving from your duty to God, the Queen, and every soul that sails upon this adventure, which duty is to strengthen to the uttermost this new sinew of our enterprise.  Mailed hand and velvet glove, you know their several uses, and the man whom you shall choose will be one to make the galleon’s name resound.”