“By heaven, you are a brave fellow!” said Amyas.  “Come along straight to Sir Richard’s room.”

So in they went, where Sir Richard sat in his library among books, despatches, state-papers, and warrants; for though he was not yet, as in after times (after the fashion of those days) admiral, general, member of parliament, privy councillor, justice of the peace, and so forth, all at once, yet there were few great men with whom he did not correspond, or great matters with which he was not cognizant.

“Hillo, Amyas, have you bound the wild man already, and brought him in to swear allegiance?”

But before Amyas could answer, the man looked earnestly on him—­“Amyas?” said he; “is that your name, sir?”

“Amyas Leigh is my name, at your service, good fellow.”

“Of Burrough by Bideford?”

“Why then?  What do you know of me?”

“Oh sir, sir! young brains and happy ones have short memories; but old and sad brains too long ones often!  Do you mind one that was with Mr. Oxenham, sir?  A swearing reprobate he was, God forgive him, and hath forgiven him too, for His dear Son’s sake—­one, sir, that gave you a horn, a toy with a chart on it?”

“Soul alive!” cried Amyas, catching him by the hand; “and are you he?  The horn? why, I have it still, and will keep it to my dying day, too.  But where is Mr. Oxenham?”

“Yes, my good fellow, where is Mr. Oxenham?” asked Sir Richard, rising.  “You are somewhat over-hasty in welcoming your old acquaintance, Amyas, before we have heard from him whether he can give honest account of himself and of his captain.  For there is more than one way by which sailors may come home without their captains, as poor Mr. Barker of Bristol found to his cost.  God grant that there may have been no such traitorous dealing here.”

“Sir Richard Grenville, if I had been a guilty man to my noble captain, as I have to God, I had not come here this day to you, from whom villainy has never found favor, nor ever will; for I know your conditions well, sir; and trust in the Lord, that if you will be pleased to hear me, you shall know mine.”

“Thou art a well-spoken knave.  We shall see.”

“My dear sir,” said Amyas, in a whisper, “I will warrant this man guiltless.”

“I verily believe him to be; but this is too serious a matter to be left on guess.  If he will be sworn—­”

Whereon the man, humbly enough, said, that if it would please Sir Richard, he would rather not be sworn.

“But it does not please me, rascal!  Did I not warn thee, Amyas?”

“Sir,” said the man, proudly, “God forbid that my word should not be as good as my oath:  but it is against my conscience to be sworn.”

“What have we here? some fantastical Anabaptist, who is wiser than his teachers.”

“My conscience, sir—­”

“The devil take it and thee!  I never heard a man yet begin to prate of his conscience, but I knew that he was about to do something more than ordinarily cruel or false.”