“Prithee, thou brown-robed fellow, how looked he in a sanbenito—­that tall, fierce, black-bearded Captain that your Provincial mentions here?” The parchment rustled in his hand.

The friar quailed before the narrowed eyes; then, the old flame in him leaping up, he answered, boldly enough, “It became him well, senor,—­well as it becomes every enemy to Spain and the Church!”

The other slightly laughed.  “Why, go thy ways for a man of courage! but go quickly, while as yet in all this steadfast world I find no fault save with myself.”

He stood to watch the embarkment of the mariners, who, if they wondered at this latest command, had learned at least to wonder in silence.  But Robin-a-dale hung back, made protest.  “Go!” said his master, whereupon Robin went indeed—­not to the awaiting boat, but with a defiant cry end a rush across the sloping sand into the thick wood.  The green depths which received him were so labyrinthine, so filled with secret places wherein to hide, that an hour’s search might not dislodge him.  The sometime Captain of the Cygnet let pass his wilfulness, signed to the boats to push off, awaited in silence the fulfilment of all his commands; then turning, rounded the eastern point of the tiny bay, and was lost to sight in the shadows of the now late afternoon.

The sun went down behind the lofty trees; the brief dusk passed, and the little beach showed faintly beneath the stars, great and small, of a moonless night.  Above the western horizon clouds arose and the lightning constantly flashed, but there was no thunder, and only the sound of the low surf upon the shore.  Robin, creeping from the wood, saw the Sea Wraith at anchor, and by the distant lightning the bark from Pampatar drifting far away without sail or rudder.  Rounding the crescent of gleaming sand, he lost the Sea Wraith and the bark, but found whom he sought.  Finding him, he made no sign, but sat himself down in the lee of a sand-dune, and with a memory swept clear of later prayers, presently began in a frightened whisper to say his

     “Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—­”

Half-way down the pallid beach stood Ferne, visible enough even by the starlight, now and then completely shown by one strong lightning flash.  His doublet was thrown aside, his right arm advanced, his hand grasping the hilt of his drawn sword.  But the sword point was lowered, his breast bared; he stood like one who awaits, who invites, the last thrust, in mortal surrender to an invisible foe.  The lines of the figure expressed a certain weariness and suspense, as of one who would that all was over, and who finds the victor strangely tardy.  The face, seen by the occasional lightning flash, was a little raised, a little expectant.