no safety in the Spanish Main, when once our escape got wind.  And the more part being of one mind, for England we sailed, watering at the Barbadoes because it was desolate; and so eastward toward the Canaries.  In which voyage what we endured (being taken by long calms), by scurvy, calentures, hunger, and thirst, no tongue can tell.  Many a time were we glad to lay out sheets at night to catch the dew, and suck them in the morning; and he that had a noggin of rain-water out of the scuppers was as much sought to as if he had been Adelantado of all the Indies; till of a hundred and forty poor wretches a hundred and ten were dead, blaspheming God and man, and above all me and the Genoese, for taking the Europe voyage, as if I had not sins enough of my own already.  And last of all, when we thought ourselves safe, we were wrecked by southwesters on the coast of Brittany, near to Cape Race, from which but nine souls of us came ashore with their lives; and so to Brest, where I found a Flushinger who carried me to Falmouth and so ends my tale, in which if I have said one word more or less than truth, I can wish myself no worse, than to have it all to undergo a second time.”

And his voice, as he finished, sank from very weariness of soul; while Sir Richard sat opposite him in silence, his elbows on the table, his cheeks on his doubled fists, looking him through and through with kindling eyes.  No one spoke for several minutes; and then—­

“Amyas, you have heard this story.  You believe it?”

“Every word, sir, or I should not have the heart of a Christian man.”

“So do I. Anthony!”

The butler entered.

“Take this man to the buttery; clothe him comfortably, and feed him with the best; and bid the knaves treat him as if he were their own father.”

But Yeo lingered.

“If I might be so bold as to ask your worship a favor?—­”

“Anything in reason, my brave fellow.”

“If your worship could put me in the way of another adventure to the Indies?”

“Another!  Hast not had enough of the Spaniards already?”

“Never enough, sir, while one of the idolatrous tyrants is left unhanged,” said he, with a right bitter smile.  “But it’s not for that only, sir:  but my little maid—­Oh, sir! my little maid, that I swore to Mr. Oxenham to look to, and never saw her from that day to this!  I must find her, sir, or I shall go mad, I believe.  Not a night but she comes and calls to me in my dreams, the poor darling; and not a morning but when I wake there is my oath lying on my soul, like a great black cloud, and I no nearer the keeping of it.  I told that poor young minister of it when we were in the galleys together; and he said oaths were oaths, and keep it I must; and keep it I will, sir, if you’ll but help me.”

“Have patience, man.  God will take as good care of thy little maid as ever thou wilt.”

“I know it, sir.  I know it:  but faith’s weak, sir! and oh! if she were bred up a Papist and an idolater; wouldn’t her blood be on my head then, sir?  Sooner than that, sooner than that, I’d be in the Inquisition again to-morrow, I would!”