foot on the soil of the New World.  There he sits, like an old Druid Tor of primeval granite amid the tall wheat and rich clover crops of a modern farm.  He has seen the death of old Europe and the birth-throes of the new.  Go to him, and question him; for his senses are quick as ever; and just now the old man seems uneasy.  He is peering with rheumy eyes through the groups, and seems listening for a well-known voice.

“There ’a be again!  Why don’t ’a come, then?”

“Quiet, gramfer, and don’t trouble his worship.”

“Here an hour, and never speak to poor old Martin!  I say, sir”—­and the old man feebly plucks Amyas’s cloak as he passes.  “I say, captain, do ’e tell young master old Martin’s looking for him.”

“Marcy, gramfer, where’s your manners?  Don’t be vexed, sir, he’m a’most a babe, and tejous at times, mortal.”

“Young master who?” says Amyas, bending down to the old man, and smiling to the dame to let him have his way.

“Master Hawkins; he’m never been a-near me all day.”

Off goes Amyas; and, of course, lays hold of the sleeve of young Richard Hawkins; but as he is in act to speak, the dame lays hold of his, laughing and blushing.

“No, sir, not Mr. Richard, sir; Admiral John, sir, his father; he always calls him young master, poor old soul!” and she points to the grizzled beard and the face scarred and tanned with fifty years of fight and storm.

Amyas goes to the Admiral, and gives his message.

“Mercy on me!  Where be my wits?  Iss, I’m a-coming,” says the old hero in his broadest Devon, waddles off to the old man, and begins lugging at a pocket.  “Here, Martin, I’ve got mun, I’ve got mun, man alive; but his Lordship keept me so.  Lookee here, then!  Why, I do get so lusty of late, Martin, I can’t get to my pockets!”

And out struggle a piece of tarred string, a bundle of papers, a thimble, a piece of pudding-tobacco, and last of all, a little paper of Muscovado sugar—­then as great a delicacy as any French bonbons would be now—­which he thrusts into the old man’s eager and trembling hand.

Old Martin begins dipping his finger into it, and rubbing it on his toothless gums, smiling and nodding thanks to his young master; while the little maid at his knee, unrebuked, takes her share also.

“There, Admiral Leigh; both ends meet—­gramfers and babies!  You and I shall be like to that one day, young Samson!”

“We shall have slain a good many Philistines first, I hope.”

“Amen! so be it; but look to mun! so fine a sailor as ever drank liquor; and now greedy after a hit of sweet trade! ’tis piteous like; but I bring mun a hit whenever I come, and he looks for it.  He’s one of my own flesh like, is old Martin.  He sailed with my father Captain Will, when they was both two little cracks aboard of a trawler; and my father went up, and here I am—­he didn’t, and there he is.  We’m up now, we Hawkinses.  We may be down again some day.”