d terrible fighter like Captain Manwood or
Ambrose Wynch, nor a ruffler like Baldry, nor even a high, cold
gentleman like Sir John, who slew Spaniards for the good of God and the
Queen, and whose slow words when he was displeased cut like a rope's
end. But he would fight and he would sing; he would laugh with his foe
and then courteously kill him; he would know how to enter the presence,
how to make a great Queen smile and sigh; and then again, amid the
thunder and reek of the fight, on decks slippery with blood, he would
strain, half naked, with the mariners, he would lead the boarders, he
would deal death with a flashing sword and a face that seen through the
smoke wreaths was so calm and high!--And the Queen might knight
him--one day the Queen might knight him. And the people at home, turning
in the street, would look and cry, "'Tis Sir Robert Dale!" as now they
cry "Sir Mortimer Ferne!"

Robin-a-dale drew in his breath and clenched his hands with
determination; then, the key being too high for long sustaining, came
down to earth and the contemplation of the bright-running Thames, its
shifting banks, and the shipping on its bosom. The river glided between
tall houses, and there were voices on the water, sounding from stately
barges, swift-plying wherries, ships at anchor, both great and small.
Over all played mild sunshine, hung pale blue skies. The boy thought of
other rivers he had seen and would see again, silent streams gliding
through forests of a fearful loveliness, miles of churned foam rushing
between black teeth of jagged rock to the sheer, desperate,
earth-shaking cataract, liquid highways to the realms of strange dreams!
He turned involuntarily and met his master's eye. Between these two,
master and boy, knave and knight, there was at times so strange a
comprehension that Robin-a-dale was scarcely startled to find that his
thoughts had been read.

"Ay, Robin," said Ferne, smiling, "other and stranger waters than those
of Father Thames! And yet I know not. Life is one, though to-day we
glide through the sunshine to a fair Queen's palace, and to-morrow we
strive like fiends from hell for those two sirens, Lust of Gold and Lust
of Blood. Therefore, Robin, an you toss your silver brooch into the
Thames it may come to hand on the other side of the world, swirling
towards you in some Arethusa fountain."

"I see the ships, master!" cried the boy. "Ho, the _Cygnet_, the bonny
white _Cygnet!_"

They lay in a h