“I would go a hundred miles to see that Desmond hanged!” said Amyas, while great tears ran down his face.  “Poor Mr. Davils!  And now, what is the story of Sir Thomas?”

“Your brother must tell you that, lad; I am somewhat out of breath.”

“And I have a right to tell it,” said Frank, with a smile.  “Do you know that I was very near being Earl of the bog of Allen, and one of the peers of the realm to King Buoncompagna, son and heir to his holiness Pope Gregory the Thirteenth?”

“No, surely!”

“As I am a gentleman.  When I was at Rome I saw poor Stukely often; and this and more he offered me on the part (as he said) of the Pope, if I would just oblige him in the two little matters of being reconciled to the Catholic Church, and joining the invasion of Ireland.”

“Poor deluded heretic,” said Will Cary, “to have lost an earldom for your family by such silly scruples of loyalty!”

“It is not a matter for jesting, after all,” said Frank; “but I saw Sir Thomas often, and I cannot believe he was in his senses, so frantic was his vanity and his ambition; and all the while, in private matters as honorable a gentleman as ever.  However, he sailed at last for Ireland, with his eight hundred Spaniards and Italians; and what is more, I know that the King of Spain paid their charges.  Marquis Vinola—­James Buoncompagna, that is—­stayed quietly at Rome, preferring that Stukely should conquer his paternal heritage of Ireland for him while he took care of the bona robas at home.  I went down to Civita Vecchia to see him off; and though his younger by many years, I could not but take the liberty of entreating him, as a gentleman and a man of Devon, to consider his faith to his queen and the honor of his country.  There were high words between us; God forgive me if I spoke too fiercely, for I never saw him again.”

“Too fiercely to an open traitor, Frank?  Why not have run him through?”

“Nay, I had no clean life for Sundays, Amyas; so I could not throw away my week-day one; and as for the weal of England, I knew that it was little he would damage it, and told him so.  And at that he waxed utterly mad, for it touched his pride, and swore that if the wind had not been fair for sailing, he would have fought me there and then; to which I could only answer, that I was ready to meet him when he would; and he parted from me, saying, ’It is a pity, sir, I cannot fight you now; when next we meet, it will be beneath my dignity to measure swords with you.’

“I suppose he expected to come back a prince at least—­Heaven knows; I owe him no ill-will, nor I hope does any man.  He has paid all debts now in full, and got his receipt for them.”

“How did he die, then, after all?”