“He should have run or yielded, then,” said Amyas; and getting up, slipped off to find some ale, and then to sleep comfortably in a dry burrow which he scratched out of a sandbank.

The next morning, as Amyas was discussing a scanty breakfast of biscuit (for provisions were running very short in camp), Raleigh came up to him.

“What, eating?  That’s more than I have done to-day.”

“Sit down, and share, then.”

“Nay, lad, I did not come a-begging.  I have set some of my rogues to dig rabbits; but as I live, young Colbrand, you may thank your stars that you are alive to-day to eat.  Poor young Cheek—­Sir John Cheek, the grammarian’s son—­got his quittance last night by a Spanish pike, rushing headlong on, just as you did.  But have you seen your prisoner?”

“No; nor shall, while he is in Winter’s tent.”

“Why not, then?  What quarrel have you against the admiral, friend Bobadil?  Cannot you let Francis Drake fight his own battles, without thrusting your head in between them?”

“Well, that is good!  As if the quarrel was not just as much mine, and every man’s in the ship.  Why, when he left Drake, he left us all, did he not?”

“And what if he did?  Let bygones be bygones is the rule of a Christian, and of a wise man too, Amyas.  Here the man is, at least, safe home, in favor and in power; and a prudent youth will just hold his tongue, mumchance, and swim with the stream.”

“But that’s just what makes me mad; to see this fellow, after deserting us there in unknown seas, win credit and rank at home here for being the first man who ever sailed back through the Straits.  What had he to do with sailing back at all!  As well make the fox a knight for being the first that ever jumped down a jakes to escape the hounds.  The fiercer the flight the fouler the fear, say I.”

“Amyas!  Amyas! thou art a hard hitter, but a soft politician.”

“I am no politician, Captain Raleigh, nor ever wish to be.  An honest man’s my friend, and a rogue’s my foe; and I’ll tell both as much, as long as I breathe.”

“And die a poor saint,” said Raleigh, laughing.  “But if Winter invites you to his tent himself, you won’t refuse to come?”

“Why, no, considering his years and rank; but he knows too well to do that.”

“He knows too well not to do it,” said Raleigh, laughing as he walked away.  And verily in half-an-hour came an invitation, extracted of course, from the admiral by Raleigh’s silver tongue, which Amyas could not but obey.

“We all owe you thanks for last night’s service, sir,” said Winter, who had for some good reasons changed his tone.  “Your prisoner is found to be a gentleman of birth and experience, and the leader of the assault last night.  He has already told us more than we had hoped, for which also we are beholden to you; and, indeed, my Lord Grey has been asking for you already.”

“I have, young sir,” said a quiet and lofty voice; and Amyas saw limping from the inner tent the proud and stately figure of the stern deputy, Lord Grey of Wilton, a brave and wise man, but with a naturally harsh temper, which had been soured still more by the wound which had crippled him, while yet a boy, at the battle of Leith.  He owed that limp to Mary Queen of Scots; and he did not forget the debt.