christ himself. He has believed for years with Drake,
Hawkins, Grenville, 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,