For a while compliment and courtesy led each party in chains; they masked distrust and hatred beneath cloth-of-gold ceremoniousness, punctiliously accepted a Roland for an Oliver, extravagantly praised the prowess of men and nations whom they much desired to sweep from the face of the earth.  But as time wore on and the wine went round, this cloak of punctilio began to grow threadbare and the steel beneath to gleam dangerously.  There was thunder in the air, and men were ready to play at ball with the apples of discord, though as yet they but tossed to each other the poisonous flowers which should grow that fruit.  “How mightily on such a day did your little island!” cried the Spaniards.  “Ah, senors, the invincibleness of your conquistadores!” ran the English testimony.  “El Draco, Juan Acles, yourselves, valorous gentlemen, what daring past most pirates to sail the King of Spain his seas!” came the Spanish retort.

“The King of Spain his seas!” an Englishman echoed, softly.

“Why, had you not heard?” said Arden.  “God gave them to him on creation morning.”

“Pirates!  That is a prickly word!” swore Baldry.

“Why do you smile, senor?” demanded De Guardiola of the gentleman opposite him, this being Sir Mortimer Ferne.

“Did I smile, senor?  I but chanced to think of a hound of mine who once was king of the pack, but now grows old.”  The Englishman shrugged.  “True he thinks himself yet the fleetest and the strongest, but the younger dogs outstrip him.  Presently they will snatch from him every bone.”

“Now, by the Mother of God, I agree not with you!” said De Guardiola.

“Now, by the power of God, yet will it come to pass!” affirmed Sir Mortimer.

The Admiral, to whom Pedro Mexia, an easy man, was making voluble narration of the latest futile search for Manoa, turned his glance for a moment from that frank Spaniard.  But Mortimer Ferne sat at ease, a smile upon his beautiful mouth, and his hand, palm uppermost, upon the board.  Opposite him Don Luiz de Guardiola also smiled, and if that widening of the lips was somewhat tigerish, why, if all accounts were true, the man himself was of that quality, as cruel, stealthy, and remorseless as any jaguar in those deep woods behind his castle.  The Admiral returned to his discourse with Mexia, who might drop some useful hints as to the road to El Dorado.

“We have met before,” said De Guardiola.  “It was you who led your landing-party, capturing the battery.”

“The fortune of war, senior!  What says your proverb—­”

“I gave ground, it is true....  There may come an hour when with a whip of iron I will drive you from Nueva Cordoba.  Did you lead the attack upon the town?”

“Not so, senor.  Sir John Nevil very valiantly held that honor, and to him Nueva Cordoba surrendered.”

“Last night—­when I thought to take you by-surprise—­were you the leader then?”

“Yes, senor.”