“If I were a dead man and she called my name, I would answer,” said Ferne.  “She under the sod and I under the sea....  So be it!  But first one couch, one cup, one garland, the sounded depths of love—­”

“I dreamed of home,” quoth Baldry, “and of my mother’s calling me, a little lad, when at twilight work was done. ‘Robert, Robert!’ she called.”

“I had no dreams,” said Sir Mortimer.  “Now sounds John Nevil’s trumpets—­our guests have made entry.”

“Why, senors,” answered Mexia, flattered and flown with wine, “I learned to speak your tongue from a man of your country, who also gave me that knowledge of English affairs which you are pleased to compliment.  I make my boast that I am no traveller—­I have not been home to Seville these twenty years—­yet, as you see, I have some trifling acquaintance—­”

“Your learning is of so shining a quality,” quoth Sir Mortimer, with courteous emphasis, “that here and there a flaw cannot mar its curious worth.  Smerwick Fort lies in Ireland, senor, not in England.  Though verily the best thing I know of Edmund Campion is the courageousness of his end; yet indeed he died not with a halo about his head, nor were miracles wrought with his blood.  Her Gracious Majesty the Queen of England hath no such distemperature as that you name, and keepeth no sort of familiar fiend.  The Queen of Scots, if a most fair and most unfortunate, is yet a most wicked lady, who, alas! hath trained many a gallant man to a bloody and disastrous end.”

“Who is that Englishman, your teacher?” came from the head of the board the Admiral’s grave voice.

“He is dead,” said De Guardiola at his right hand.

“Of his fate, valiant senors,” began the fuddled Mexia, “you alone may be precisely aware—­”

“He is dead,” again stated with deliberation Don Luiz.  “I know, senors, the pool where these fish were caught and the wood where alone grows this purple fruit.  So you set at liberty those three slaves, the caciques?...  Well, I had reason to believe that they had hidden gold.”

“Where is Master Francis Sark?” demanded Nevil, of Ferne.  “I did command his attendance here to-night.”

“He plead a tertian fever—­would not mar our warmth with his shivering,” said the other.  “I sent the chirurgeon to his cell—­for indeed the man shook like a reed.”

It would appear that Francis Sark was an unknown name to their guests, for no flicker of recognition passed over the countenance of any Spaniard.  They sat at the long table, and foe drank to foe while fiddle and hautboy made music and the candles slowly wasted and in the hot night the garlands withered.  Perfumes were lit in the room, and the smoke of their burning made a violet haze through which quivered the heart-shaped candle flames.  The music had a wild ring, and laughter as wild came easily to a man’s lips.  The English laughed for that their spirits were turned thistle-down, and the Spaniards laughed because a man’s foe should not see his chagrin.