Sorceress enough, at least, was she to draw to herself speech and thought of this particular group; to make those who were ignorant of her relation to the shuttlecock think less of the treasure of Spain than of the treasure which their eyes beheld, and those who had been his friends, who guessed at whom had been levelled those fair arrows of song, to start full cry (when they had noted that she was merry) upon other matters than lost ships and men.  It was not long that she would have it so.  “As I entered, sir, I heard you name the Star.  That was one of Sir John Nevil’s ships.  Is there news of his adventure?”

The man to whom she spoke, some mere Hedon of the court, fluttered in the frank sunshine of her look.  “Fair gentlewoman,” he began, pomander-ball in hand, “had you a venture in that ship?  Then the less beauteous Amphitrite hath played highwayman to your wealth.  Now if I might, drawing from the storehouse of your smiles inveterate Courage, dub myself your Valor, and so to the rescue—­”

“Oh, sir, at once I dismiss you to Amphitrite’s court!” cried the lady.  “Master Darrell,”—­to a dark-browed, saturnine personage,—­“tell me less of Amphitrite and more of the truth.  The Star—­”

He whom she addressed loved not the shuttlecock, thought one woman but falser than another, and made parade of blunt speech.  Now a shrug of the shoulder accompanied his answer.  “The Star went down months ago, off the Grand Canary, in a storm by night.”

“Alack the day!” cried Damaris.  “But God, not man, sendeth the storm!  Was none saved?”

“All were saved,” went on her grim informant; “but well for them had they died with their ship, in the salt sea—­Captain Robert Baldry and his men—­”

A murmur ran through the group, which now numbered more than one who could have shrewdly guessed to whom this lady had given her love.  Some would have stayed Black Darrell, but not the Queen herself could have bidden him on with more imperious gesture than did Damaris.  “Saved from the sea—­but better they had drowned!  You speak in riddles, Master Darrell.  Where are Captain Robert Baldry and his men?”

A young man hurriedly approached her from another quarter of the room.  Men bowed low as he passed, and the circle about the maid of honor received him with a deference it scarce had shown to Beauty’s self.

“Ha, Mistress Damaris!” he cried, with somewhat of a forced gayety, “my sister sends messages to you from Wilton!  The day is fair—­wilt walk with me in the garden and hear her letter?”

The maid of honor gave him no answer; stood smiling, the plumed fan waving, her eyes fixed upon Black Darrell, who scorned to budge an inch for any court favorite and friend of the shuttlecock’s.  Damaris repeated her question, and he answered it with relish.

“Betrayed to the Spaniard, madam,—­they and many a goodly gentleman and tall fellow beside!  If they died, they died with curses on their lips, and if they live, they bide with the Holy Office or in the galleys of Spain.”