hed a cooling draught in place of the victuals, and
without questioning made him drink it. He thanked me amid some
rambling, light-headed talk--the most of it too quickly poured out for
me to catch; but by-and-by grew easier and drowsy. I left him to sleep,
putting off questions for the morning.

But early on the morrow--between five and six o'clock--came Will Hendra,
a cowkeeper, into our courtyard with a strange tale; one that disquieted
if it did not altogether astonish me. The tale--as told before my
Master, whom I aroused to hear it--ran thus: that between midnight and
one in the morning the Portugals in the Cove had been set upon and
beaten from the spoils by a number of men with pikes (no doubt belonging
to Saint Aubyn or Godolphin, or both), and forced to flee to the cliffs.
But (here came in the wonder) the assailants, having mastered the field,
fell on the casks, chests, and packages, only to find them utterly empty
or filled with weed and gravel! Of freight--so Will Hendra had it from
one of Godolphin's own men, who were now searching the cliffs and
caverns--not twelve-pennyworth remained on the beach. The Portugals
must have hidden or made away with it all. He added that their captain
had been found at the foot of the cliffs with his head battered in; but
whether by a fall or a blow taken in the affray, there was no telling.

My Master let saddle at once and rode away for the Cove without breaking
his fast. And I went about my customary duties until full daybreak,
when I paid a visit to the strong room, to see how the prisoner had
slept.

I found him sitting up in bed and nursing his leg, the wound of which
appeared red and angry at the edges. I sent, therefore, for a
fomentation, and while applying it thought no harm to tell him the
report from the Cove. To my astonishment it threw him into a transport,
though whether of rage or horror I could not at first tell. But he
jerked his leg from my grasp, and beating the straw with both fists he
cried out--

"I knew it! I knew it would be so! She is a witch--a daughter of
Satan, or his leman! It is her doing, I tell you. It is she who has
killed that fool Affonzo. She is a witch!" He fell back on the straw,
his strength spent, but still beat weakly with his fists, gasping
"Witch--witch!"

"Hush!" said I. "You are light-headed with your hurt. Lie quiet and
let me tend it."

"As for my hurt," he answered, "your tending it will do no good.
Th