nsity of his regard the men shrank back appalled. A
moment passed then. "My friend, my friend!" cried Nevil, hoarsely, "you
have suffered.... Rest until to-morrow."

The other looked steadfastly upon him. "Why, 'tis so that I have been
through the fires of hell. Certain things were told me there--but I have
thought that perhaps they were not true. Tell me the truth."

The silence seemed long before with recovered calmness the Admiral
spoke. "Take the truth, then, from my lips, and bear it highly. As we
had plotted so we did, but that vile toad, that engrained traitor,
learning, we know not how, each jot and tittle of our plan and escaping
by some secret way, sold us to disaster such as has not been since Fayal
in the Azores! For on land we fought to no avail, and by treachery the
Spaniards seized the _Cygnet_, slew the men upon her, and fired her
powder-room. Dressed in flame she bore down upon, struck, and sunk the
_Phoenix_.... Now we are the _Mere Honour_ and the _Marigold_, and we go
under press of sail because behind us, whitening the waters that we have
left, is the plate-fleet from Cartagena."

"Where is Robert Baldry?" asked Ferne.

"In the hands of Don Luiz de Guardiola--dead or living we know not. He
and a hundred men came not forth from the tunal--stayed behind in the
snare the Spaniard had set for them."

"Where is Henry Sedley?"

"He died in my arms, Mortimer, thrust through by a pike in that bitter
fight upon the plain!" Arden made reply. "I was to tell you that he
waited for you in Christ His court."

"Then will he wait for aye," said the man who leaned so heavily against
the door. "Or till Christ beckons in Iscariot."

They looked at him, thinking his mind distraught, not wondering that it
should be so. He read their thought and smiled, but his eyes that smiled
not met Arden's. "Great God!" cried the latter, shrank back against the
table and put out a shaking hand.

Slowly Ferne left the support of the wood and straightened his racked
frame until he stood erect, a figure yet graceful, yet stately, but
pathetic and terrible, bearing as it did deep marks of Spanish hatred.
The face was ghastly in its gleaming pallor, in its effect of a
beautiful mask fitted to tragedy too utter for aught but stillness. He
wore no doublet, and his shirt was torn and stained with blood, but in
last and subtlest mockery De Guardiola had restored to him his sword. He
drew it now, held the blade across his knee, and w