“On his voyage he touched in Portugal.  King Sebastian was just sailing for Africa with his new ally, Mohammed the Prince of Fez, to help King Abdallah, and conquer what he could.  He persuaded Stukely to go with him.  There were those who thought that he, as well as the Spaniards, had no stomach for seeing the Pope’s son King of Ireland.  Others used to say that he thought an island too small for his ambition, and must needs conquer a continent—­I know not why it was, but he went.  They had heavy weather in the passage; and when they landed, many of their soldiers were sea-sick.  Stukely, reasonably enough, counselled that they should wait two or three days and recruit; but Don Sebastian was so mad for the assault that he must needs have his veni, vidi, vici; and so ended with a veni, vidi, perii; for he Abdallah, and his son Mohammed, all perished in the first battle at Alcasar; and Stukely, surrounded and overpowered, fought till he could fight no more, and then died like a hero with all his wounds in front; and may God have mercy on his soul!”

“Ah!” said Amyas, “we heard of that battle off Lima, but nothing about poor Stukely.”

“That last was a Popish prayer, Master Frank,” said old Mr. Cary.

“Most worshipful sir, you surely would not wish God not to have mercy on his soul?”

“No—­eh?  Of course not:  but that’s all settled by now, for he is dead, poor fellow.”

“Certainly, my dear sir.  And you cannot help being a little fond of him still.”

“Eh? why, I should be a brute if I were not.  He and I were schoolfellows, though he was somewhat the younger; and many a good thrashing have I given him, and one cannot help having a tenderness for a man after that.  Beside, we used to hunt together in Exmoor, and have royal nights afterward into Ilfracombe, when we were a couple of mad young blades.  Fond of him?  Why, I would have sooner given my forefinger than that he should have gone to the dogs thus.”

“Then, my dear sir, if you feel for him still, in spite of all his faults, how do you know that God may not feel for him still, in spite of all his faults?  For my part,” quoth Frank, in his fanciful way, “without believing in that Popish Purgatory, I cannot help holding with Plato, that such heroical souls, who have wanted but little of true greatness, are hereafter by some strait discipline brought to a better mind; perhaps, as many ancients have held with the Indian Gymnosophists, by transmigration into the bodies of those animals whom they have resembled in their passions; and indeed, if Sir Thomas Stukely’s soul should now animate the body of a lion, all I can say is that he would be a very valiant and royal lion; and also doubtless become in due time heartily ashamed and penitent for having been nothing better than a lion.”

“What now, Master Frank?  I don’t trouble my head with such matters—­I say Stukely was a right good-hearted fellow at bottom; and if you plague my head with any of your dialectics, and propositions, and college quips and quiddities, you sha’n’t have any more sack, sir.  But here come the knaves, and I hear the cook knock to dinner.”