and Raleigh, that he was called and sent into the world only to fight the Spaniard:  and he is fighting him now, in such a cause, for such a stake, within such battle-lists, as he will never see again:  and yet he is not content, and while throughout that gallant fleet, whole crews are receiving the Communion side by side, and rising with cheerful faces to shake hands, and to rejoice that they are sharers in Britain’s Salamis, Amyas turns away from the holy elements.

“I cannot communicate, Sir John.  Charity with all men?  I hate, if ever man hated on earth.”

“You hate the Lord’s foes only, Captain Leigh.”

“No, Jack, I hate my own as well.”

“But no one in the fleet, sir?”

“Don’t try to put me off with the same Jesuit’s quibble which that false knave Parson Fletcher invented for one of Doughty’s men, to drug his conscience withal when he was plotting against his own admiral.  No, Jack, I hate one of whom you know; and somehow that hatred of him keeps me from loving any human being.  I am in love and charity with no man, Sir John Brimblecombe—­not even with you!  Go your ways in God’s name, sir! and leave me and the devil alone together, or you’ll find my words are true.”

Jack departed with a sigh, and while the crew were receiving the Communion on deck, Amyas sate below in the cabin sharpening his sword, and after it, called for a boat and went on board Drake’s ship to ask news of the Sta.  Catharina, and listened scowling to the loud chants and tinkling bells, which came across the water from the Spanish fleet.  At last, Drake was summoned by the lord admiral, and returned with a secret commission, which ought to bear fruit that night; and Amyas, who had gone with him, helped him till nightfall, and then returned to his own ship as Sir Amyas Leigh, Knight, to the joy and glory of every soul on board, except his moody self.

So there, the livelong summer Sabbath-day, before the little high-walled town and the long range of yellow sandhills, lie those two mighty armaments, scowling at each other, hardly out of gunshot.  Messenger after messenger is hurrying towards Bruges to the Duke of Parma, for light craft which can follow these nimble English somewhat better than their own floating castles; and, above all, entreating him to put to sea at once with all his force.  The duke is not with his forces at Dunkirk, but on the future field of Waterloo, paying his devotions to St. Mary of Halle in Hainault, in order to make all sure in his Pantheon, and already sees in visions of the night that gentle-souled and pure-lipped saint, Cardinal Allen, placing the crown of England on his head.  He returns for answer, first, that his victual is not ready; next, that his Dutch sailors, who have been kept at their post for many a week at the sword’s point, have run away like water; and thirdly, that over and above all, he cannot come, so “strangely provided” of great ordnance and musketeers are