“Why, that is true,” answered the other.  “One lives not fifteen years in these parts to carry away but a handful of marvels.”  Relieved by the easiness of his examination and the courtesy of his captor, he even smiled and ventured upon a small pleasantry.  “You cannot take from me, redoubtable senor, that which my eyes have seen and my ears have heard.”

Ferne wheeled.  “Give me the letter which you bear from your superior at Cartagena to the head of your order at Segovia.”

As he recoiled, the Franciscan’s hand went involuntarily to the breast of his gown, and then fell again to his side.  The Captain of the Sea Wraith whistled, and several of the mariners, who were now rolling the water-casks down the little beach to the waiting boats, came at his call.  “Seize him,” ordered the Captain.  “Robin, take from him the packet he carries.”

When he had from the boy’s hand a small, silk-enwrapped packet, and had given orders for the guarding of the two prisoners, he turned and strode alone into the woods, which stretched almost to the water’s edge.  It was as though he had plunged into a green cavern far below the sea.  In slow waves, to and fro, swayed the firmament of palms; lower, flowering lianas, jewel-colored, idle as weeds of the sea, ran in tangles and gaudy mazes from tree to tree.  He sat himself down in the green gloom, broke seal, unwrapped the silk, and read the letter, which he had acutely guessed could not fail of being sent by so responsible a hand as the friar’s from one dignitary of the order to another.  Much stateliness of Latin greeting, commendation of the returning missionary, mention of a slight present of a golden dish wrought in alacrity and joy by Indian converts; lastly, and with some minuteness, the gossip, political and ecclesiastical, of the past twelfth month.  The sinking of the Spanish ships and the sacking of the town of Nueva Cordoba by English pirates, together with their final defeat, were touched upon; but more was made of the yield to the Church of heretic souls, in all of whom Satan stood fast.  The Holy Office had delivered them to the secular arm, and the letter closed with a circumstantial account of a great auto-de-fe in the square of Cartagena.  Without the wood, upon the edge of white sand, the men of the Sea Wraith waited for their Captain.  At last he came, so quiet of mien and voice that only Robin-a-dale stared, caught his breath, and gazed hard upon an ashen face.

Ferne’s orders were of the curtest:  Begone, every man of them, to the Sea Wraith, and lie at anchor waiting for the morning.  For himself, he should spend the night ashore; they might leave for him the cockboat, and with the first light he would come aboard.  The two prisoners,—­place them in the ransacked bark and let them go whither they would or could.  He glanced in their direction, then turning sharply, crossed the sand to stand for a moment beside the Franciscan.