were ringing, on the plain were figures moving; from the fortress boomed a gun, and the sound was like a taunt, was like a blow upon the cheek.  Swift answer made the cannon of both ships, and the sullen, defiant roar awoke the echoes.  Taunt might they give for taunt.  Three ships had the English taken, three towns had they sacked; in sea-fights and in land-fights they had been victors!  Where were the caravels, where the ruined battery at the river’s mouth, where the great magazine of Nueva Cordoba?  Where was Antonio de Castro?—­and the galleon San Jose was lost to friend as well as foe—­and Spaniard no more than Englishman might gather again the sunken treasure.  Thus spake the guns, but the hearts of the men behind were wrung for the living and the dead.  The shores slipped by, the fortress hill of Nueva Cordoba lessened to a silver speck against the mountains; swift-sailing ships they feared no chase by those galleons of Spain.  Islands were passed, behind them fell bold coasts, before them spread the waste of waters.  Beyond the waste there was home, where friend and foe awaited tidings of the expedition which had gone forth big with promise.

In the Mere Honour’s state-cabin upon the evening of that decisive day were gathered a number of the adventurers who had staked life and goods in this enterprise.  Not all were there who had sailed from England to the Spanish seas.  Then as now England paid tithes of her younger sons to violent death.  Many men were missing whose voices the air seemed yet to hold.  They had outstripped their comrades, they had gone before:  what bustling highways or what lonely paths they were treading, what fare they were tasting, for what mark they were making, and upon what long, long adventure bound—­these were hidden things to the travellers left behind in this murky segment of life.  But to the strained senses of the men upon whom, as yet, had hardly fallen the upas languor of accepted defeat, before whose eyes, whether shut or open, yet passed insistent visions of last night’s events, like an echo, like a shade, old presences made themselves felt.  Swinging lanterns dimly lit the cabin of the Mere Honour, and in ranks the shadows rose and fell along its swaying walls.  From without, the sound of the sea came like an inarticulate murmur of far-away voices.  There were vacant places at the table, and upon the long benches that ran beneath the windows; yet, indefinably, there seemed no less a company than in the days before the taking of the galleon San Jose and the town of Nueva Cordoba.  One arose restlessly and looked out upon the star-rimmed sea, then in haste turned back to the lit cabin and passed his hand before his eyes.  “I thought I saw the Phoenix,” he said, “huge and tall, with Robert Baldry leaning over the side.”  Another groaned, “I had rather see the Cygnet that was the best-loved ship!” At the mention of the Cygnet they looked towards a door.  “How long his stupor holds!” quoth Ambrose Wynch.  “Well, God knows ’tis better dreaming than awaking!” The door opened and Sir Mortimer Ferne stood before them.