,
covered with rough etchings of land and sea.

The horn was passed from hand to hand, and the schoolboy got a nearer
sight of the marvel. To his astonished gaze displayed themselves cities
and harbours, plate ships of Spain, and islands with apes and
palm-trees, and here and there over-written: "Here is gold," and again,
"Much gold and silver." The boy turned it round and round, anxious to
possess this wonderful horn. And Oxenham asked him why he was so keen
after it.

"Because," said he, looking up boldly, "I want to go to sea. I want to
see the Indies. I want to fight the Spaniards." And the lad, having
hurried out his say, dropped his head.

"And you shall," cried Oxenham. "Whose son are you, my gallant fellow?"

"Mr. Leigh's, of Burrough Court."

"Bless his soul! I know him as well as I do the Eddystone. Tell your
father John Oxenham will come and keep him company."

The boy, Amyas Leigh, took his way homewards, and that night John
Oxenham dined at Burrough Court; but failed to get Mr. Leigh's leave to
take young Amyas with him, nor did Sir Richard Grenville, the boy's
godfather, who was also at dinner, help him with his suit.

But somewhat more than a twelvemonth later, Mr. Leigh, going down on
business to Exeter Assizes, caught--as was too common in those days--the
gaol-fever from the prisoners, sickened in the very court, and died
within a week.

"You must be my father now, sir," said young Amyas firmly to Sir Richard
Grenville, on the day after the funeral.

And shortly afterwards, Amyas having broken his slate on the head of
Vindex Brimblecombe, Sir Richard thought it well to go up to Burrough.
And, after much talk and many tears, matters were so concluded that
Amyas Leigh found himself riding joyfully towards Plymouth, and being
handed over to Captain Drake, vanished for three years from the good
town of Bideford.

And now he is returned in triumph, and the observed of all observers.

The bells of Bideford church cannot help breaking forth into a jocund
peal. Bideford streets are a very flower-garden of all the colours,
swarming with seamen and burghers and burghers' wives and daughters, all
in their holiday attire. Garlands are hung across the streets and
tapestries from every window. Every stable is crammed with horses, and
Sir Richard Grenville's house is like a very tavern. Along the little
churchyard streams all the gentle blood of North Devon, and on into the
church, where all are placed a