Chapter XXVI.

ALL ON A BRIGHT MARCH MORNING.

The March winds were blowing, and the daffydowndillies were nodding merry heads in the sunshine. The hawthorn hedges were dotted with the bright green of bursting buds; and behind this promise of cover from the prying eyes of predatory urchins, the small birds were busy house-building. The tall elms were still bare of leaves, but the rooks had framed their crazy nests, and were now busy following the ploughman, and waxing fat on succulent worms. The sedgy pools and ditches in the forest were noisy with the hoarse croaking of colonies of frogs. Lambs skipped in the farmers' meadows, and cropped the grass that had already lost the brown tinge of winter.

Spring was come, vouched for by the calendar, the place of King Sol in the blue heavens, and the changing aspect of reawakening nature.

By every token of a healthy youth and a glorious March morning, Johnnie's thoughts should have been light, fanciful, and centred round the fair image of Mistress Dorothy Dawe. Alas! they were dark as a midwinter night, and as gloomy as a funeral oration.

"'She only drove me to despair, When--she--un-kind--did--prove.'"

Johnnie hummed the last few bars of a popular madrigal in slow and dirge-like tones. "She" was still wayward and unkind, and "He" was setting out on the morrow in search of treasure to lay at a maiden's feet. The young fellow's visions of the Indies were no longer rosy, but drab as November skies. He was pledged to set his face westward ho! but the zest was gone out of the enterprise. He leaned over a gate, and watched the gulls fishing in the river.

Johnnie did not hear a light step coming down the meadow towards him; no sound disturbed his melancholy reflections. "Jack!" murmured a soft voice.

The young man started as though an arrow had struck him. His face flushed hotly, and a gleam of pleasure lighted up its gloom.

"Good morrow, Mistress Dorothy," he said. "I suppose thy father waits at the house? I will go to him at once."

He turned from the stile; but on his arm there was the flutter of a hand like to the flutter of a bird's wing, and he stopped. He turned to look at the river again, and the maiden's eyes followed his. There was silence whilst a man might have told ten score.

"The wings of the gulls flash like silver in the sunshine," ventured Dorothy.

"So I have thought."

A pause.

"Thou art leaving us to-morrow."

"That is why I have been watching the gulls for near an hour."

"I don't understand."

"Paignton Rob says that these white gulls are found all the world over. I shall see them a thousand leagues away--screaming round the ship; massing in white armies on the New World cliffs; fishing in the rivers. My last vision of home must have white gulls in it. Away yonder they will be fairy birds to me, calling up pictures of my ancestral homestead along Severn side. The forests there will not recall the forest here. How shall their stifling heat and towering palms, their gaudy birds and flowers, their roaring beasts and loathly reptiles, remind one of the cool, sweet glades, the scented bracken, the gnarled oaks, the leaping deer, and sweet-throated songsters of home? 'Tis the vision of the river, the tide, and the wheeling gulls that I shall see again in the land of 'El Dorado.'"

There was a sadness and pathos in the forester's voice that went straight to the heart of the forest maiden. The hand was on his arm again, fluttering, trembling. "I have been very wicked!" The fluty notes of a sweet voice were broken.

"Who says so?" demanded Johnnie harshly and loudly.

"I do; you do."

"I do not!"

"But I have hurt you."

"Why shouldn't you do so, if it pleases you? Women must aye be meddling with pins and barbs. If they be not pricking velvets or home-spun, they must be thrusting sharp points into those that love them best. Why shouldst thou differ from others of thy sex?"

The young man's voice was bitter; the barbs still rankled. They had been long in the wounds they had made, and there was fiery inflammation. How often had he told the maid that she was like none other of her sex; that she was peerless--stood alone! The memory of former passionate declarations flashed across the minds of them both, and both sighed down into silence.

"Wilt thou not forgive me?"

"Why didst thou flout me, Dolly?"

"Just a maid's foolish temper. Think how full of whimsies we women be. Men be not so; they have strength denied to us, the weaker vessel." (Johnnie's face was visibly softening. Dolly sighed with renewed hope, and went on.) "I was hurt because thou didst plan and resolve to go to the Indies without ever a word to me. I was not thought on. The Queen moves a finger, and straightway thou art fashioning wings to take thee to the ends of the earth. 'Twas thy duty so to do, but why treat me as a chit or child of no account? Thy head was ever bobbing against that of Master Jeffreys, or pouring plans into the one ear of Paignton Rob. 'Mum' was the word if ye did but catch the rustle of my gown. Thou hadst vowed to share thy life with me; yet there did ye sit, like conspirators, planning momentous issues in life, with never a chance for me to utter 'Yea' or 'Nay.' Was that just?"

"I told thee of my resolve as soon as I had made it firm."

"That was a day too late for my pride. The Dawes have some pride, Jack Morgan."

"They have reason for it, Mistress Dawe."

"Their friends should respect it."

"I was hoping to increase it. Why, thinkest thou, did I resolve to risk life and limb in the Indies, unless to gather wealth, that I might lay it at thy feet?"

"Nay; thou wert bitten by the flea of adventure, and must needs rush about the world to deaden the itching. Suppose that I had rather have thee remain at home, being but a plain maid, who would find contentment as a farmer's wife?"

The idea had not occurred to Johnnie, and he gasped in astonishment. Dolly saw his confusion, and wisely did not press her point. On the contrary, woman-like, she dropped the whole thread of the argument, and simply exclaimed a little plaintively,--

"I am sore wearied!"

"Wearied!" cried Johnnie, facing round. "Wearied of what?"

"I have walked from Newnham, and 'tis a trying journey with the wind buffeting one so rudely."

"I thought thou hadst ridden with thy father."

"I walked alone; I wanted to see thee alone. Why should we part ill friends, that have loved one another?"

The next moment a tearful maid was in a strong man's arms. All the wrongs on both sides, real and imaginary, were forgiven and forgotten. Two happy, laughing lovers sat and watched the gulls wheeling, dipping, rising in the spring sunshine.

"Thou hast rare roses in thy cheeks, sweetheart," said Johnnie.

"'Tis the wind," replied Dolly.

"'March wind!'" murmured the youth.

"'April showers!'" sobbed the maiden; for she thought of the morrow, and the tears came into the brave blue eyes.

Chapter XXVII.

IN PLYMOUTH.

The arrow sang its curving flight through the air and stuck, with a quick quiver, in the very centre of the target. "Four times out of six have I found his heart, and a pennypiece would cover the four," exclaimed Nick Johnson. "'Twill do!" He put his bow-point to his toe, loosened the string, and laid the weapon aside. Brother Ned slipped his own bow from his shoulder, strung it, tested its tautness and rigidity, and took six arrows from the boy who waited upon the patrons of archery ground. He shot; the arrow went wide. He sighed, rubbed his eyes as though to clear them from mist, and shot again. The shaft lodged on the outer edge of the target, almost splintering the wood. "Better," said Nick encouragingly. Ned shot a third time; the string twanged unevenly, and the arrow fell short. With a groan of despair the sailor threw the bow aside, and called to the boy to fetch the arrows. "'Tis no use," he cried; "I shall ne'er master the trick on't again; left hand and eye will not go together as did right hand and eye in the old days. Time was when I could outshoot thee three matches in four; now should I miss the side of a house at a hundred paces. Thy left arm serves thee better than thy right ever did. I know no better marksman."

Nick pulled musingly at his sandy beard. "In truth," he admitted, "it seemeth as though nature intended me for a left-handed man; 'tis wonderful what skill I have acquired with it in a few months of practice. Wilt thou not try again?"

"Not to-day. I'll to the witch-woman under the cliffs, and get her to say some charms that have power over the left side of a man." Ned strode moodily off, and Nick followed him. At the stile that led into the highway they met Dan Pengelly coming in search of them. Yards away his excited countenance heralded news. "They've turned up at last!" he cried.

"Master Morgan and Rob?"

"No; the Papishers."

"How?"

"Get ye to the 'Blue Dolphin,' and Dame Gregory will tell ye all. I'll be in hiding on the opposite side of the way, and a whistle will bring me across. Give your legs full play. I'll not be seen with ye. Needs must that we deal craftily when the devil's in person amongst the foe."

"Rest easy, Dan. Come on, Ned," cried Nick. And the two brothers swung off for the harbour side of the town and the back parlour of the "Blue Dolphin." Whilst they clatter along the cobbled highway, we will explain their errand.

When Dan Pengelly babbled secrets into the ears of Brother Basil, he unwittingly gave that worthy a new scheme of revenge. For some months after the failure of the plot to burn the forest, the ex-monk had remained in hiding amidst the mountains of South Wales. He stayed near Newnham long enough to learn from the farmer at Arlingham the precise fate of Father Jerome, his co-conspirator John, and Andrew Windybank. Being assured of their deaths, and the absolute failure of the Spanish plot, he disappeared. The foresters hoped, and at length believed, that he was dead; they had learned that he was the fiercest and most unscrupulous of the fanatics, and rumour had quickly clothed him with all sorts of unholy attributes. That he was not dead, but plotting further mischief, was known only to one man, and the knowledge helped to darken that man's life. The farmer at Arlingham had never been suspected of complicity in the plot; all, save Basil, who could have blabbed his secret were amongst the slain on the night of the fight with the Luath. He himself lost heart at the critical moment and stayed at home, and his only share in the affair was to provide for some of the wounded and receive the thanks of the admiral for his ready generosity. Yet, whilst the wounded groaned and tossed on his beds, Basil lay curled up, wolf fashion, in one of the barns. He lodged there again for two days after the burning of Dean Tower, and whilst the forest was being scoured with horse and hound for him. From thence he had journeyed to Plymouth, hoping to secure the Spanish papers hidden by the garrulous seaman. He succeeded in his object only a few hours before Dan came hastening back from Blakeney, fearful for the safety of his precious packet. The trick had been neatly played. Dame Gregory had entertained, for one night, a very pleasant and gentlemanly guest, who had speedily found his way into her good graces, and also into the back parlour of the "Blue Dolphin," which was sacred to the intimate cronies of her sailor spouse. It was there, behind a panel in the wall, that the hostess kept treasures belonging to several homeless mariners and adventurers who made her their banker and confidential agent. The foolish Dan, tipsily anxious to let his little comrade know how cunning he was, had explained the working of the panel and the difficulty of any one, save those in the secret, getting access to the precious hoard behind it. An evening's survey matured Basil's plans. Early the next morning two strange sailor-men entered the inn, and kept the landlady answering questions for the best part of half an hour. Not long after she was rid of them, her pleasant guest also bade her good day and departed.

No suspicions were aroused until Dan's return and discovery of his loss. Then Basil's handiwork was apparent enough. His connection with the two sailors was revealed in an early stage of Dan's search for the thief. The three had been seen together in a neighbouring hostel the previous day. No trace of them was discovered after the robbery. But now, on the very eve of Morgan's arrival in Plymouth, Dame Gregory's son, an urchin of about fourteen summers, had penetrated the rough disguise of two mariners who had dropped into the kitchen of the "Blue Dolphin." Guided by the child's eyes, the mother also had assured herself of the identity of the two. Dan had been apprised, had given the alarm to the Johnsons, and they were already lifting the latch of the parlour door. The two spies were on the ale-bench in the kitchen.

There was a whispered consultation with the hostess. Was she sure of her men? Quite. What was Dan going to do in the affair? Watch, in the hope that the sallow priest-man would pass along by the inn.

Nick and Ned entered the kitchen. They were taciturn fellows, but they gave the strangers a nod and a good-morrow! Conversation began, the Johnsons leaving the lead, after the first words, to the strangers. In those stirring times it was impossible for four mariners to meet in Plymouth town and refrain from talking about the wonderful New World across the Atlantic. All four had sailed its seas and navigated its rivers. Nick Johnson said many hard things of the Spaniards, and he expected the strangers to champion them a little. They did not; on the other hand, they heaped curses on the heads of the arrogant Dons. The talk turned on "El Dorado" and the fabulous treasures he had heaped up. The Johnsons were eager with inquiries, but had no information to offer. The strangers pretended to know a great deal about the mysterious Indian potentate and his golden land, but they winked at one another and kept their counsel. Ned Johnson made a plunge. Did the strangers know that a ship was actually fitting in Plymouth harbour for an unnamed port on the Orinoco? They did, and thought of trying for a berth in her, having information that would be valuable to her captain. By a casual remark, Ned hinted that he had personal knowledge of some of the co-owners of the Golden Boar. Instantly a flood of questions poured forth, but no answers were returned. The brothers professed a bond of secrecy. For a full hour a cunning game was played, two against two, but neither side secured an advantage. The strangers departed, having promised the Johnsons to meet the next morning at an inn lower down the harbour.

The spies were followed to their lodging-place, and a watch set upon them. But Basil was wary and made no sign. For two or three days the four sailors fraternized together, and Dan Pengelly and the landlady's son hung about in their neighbourhood, hoping to catch sight of a familiar and cunning face. Meanwhile the last touches were being given to the Golden Boar; her captain, John Drake, younger brother of the famous admiral, was daily aboard, and her three principal owners--Raleigh, Johnnie Morgan, and Captain Dawe--had arrived in Plymouth. They had given up all hope of seeing Dan's mysterious Spanish papers. But hope was not dead in the volatile Dan.

Chapter XXVIII.

THE PARLOUR OF THE "BLUE DOLPHIN."

On the Cornish side of the Sound, and directly facing the harbour of Plymouth, lay a snug fisher village. In the gray, weather-beaten church were plentiful records of the births, marriages, and deaths of the Pengellys. The homeless and wandering Dan might have claimed relationship with half the inhabitants of the place had he chosen to do so. Yet, being Plymouth born and at sea four-fifths of his time, he had never visited the place since his boyhood. He thought less of a voyage to the Indies than of a trip across the estuary of the Tamar. And in this place, that echoed with his family name, and where he himself might walk as a stranger, lodged the man he sought in every street, byway, and tavern in Plymouth.

Dan had been down to the Golden Boar, and had talked with Captain Drake and Master Morgan. They wanted news of his papers; he could give them none.

"Then," said John Drake, "we can wait here no longer. Maybe thy papers would give us the very route to 'El Dorado's' land, and save us a world of danger and trouble; maybe they are about some other matter entirely. In any case, I must sail in three days' time. We are thoroughly armed, manned, and victualled; winter is gone, and the winds will serve. 'Tis westward ho! and take the risks that other bold fellows have taken before us. Yet I had rather the little priest had not gotten the manuscript from thee. The cunning thief may be garnering gold whilst we but reap wounds and fever. The New World is a big place, the Orinoco a mighty stream; no man can say what lands lie along its margin, and what mighty nations dwell on those lands. I have no fear of the night, but 'tis a good thing to have a lantern in hand when one walks in dark places."

Master Morgan agreed, and Dan resolved upon a desperate attempt to recover his lost treasure. He left the harbour, sought and found the Johnsons, and formulated a plan of action.

An hour or so later, Nick and Ned and the two stranger mariners entered the "Blue Dolphin," and begged the landlady to grant them the use of her parlour, as they wished to talk over a private matter of great importance. The good woman assented with pleasure, and promised them freedom from interruption. They went in, and upon their very heels came Dan. He said something to the hostess in a low voice. She protested volubly and angrily. He wheedled and coaxed, and at length, very reluctantly, she relented. Dan tapped at the door thrice separately and significantly. "This is our friend," said Nick Johnson, and he opened the door to admit him who knocked. The strangers stared at Dan; but, never having seen him before, had no suspicion of his identity.

All five sat down at the table, the two strangers with their backs to the fireplace, the three friends facing them, with their backs to the door. Dan did the talking, addressing himself to Basil's henchmen.

"These two good fellows," he said, "old shipmates of mine, have arranged this pleasant meeting at my request. I have heard somewhat of you, and learn that we are all greatly interested in a certain matter. If I just mention 'Indies,' 'Dons,' 'gold,' you will guess the run of my thoughts."

The strangers nodded, and settled themselves into an attitude of closer attention.

"There's a vessel in harbour almost ready to weigh anchor for the land of the setting sun. Her aim is treasure. I sail in her, and I am in the secret councils of her captain. Do you follow my thoughts?"

"Perfectly. You've some bold business on hand for dipping your hands deep into the spoil of the voyage, and you want a few bold blades at your back. Say no more. Get us aboard, and when you give the signal we're with you. To tell you the truth, we were planning some such scheme ourselves, but could see no chance of a berth on the vessel."

"I'm glad you're the stout fellows I took you to be. Now, don't be surprised at what I say next. I have more than one man's secrets locked in my bosom." Dan turned to Nick Johnson. "Just make sure there are no eavesdroppers," he said.

Nick looked out into the passage. "Not a mouse stirring."

"Then, whilst thou art on thy legs, fetch in some ale. Our new comrades would like to toast our enterprise."

Dan leaned back in silence whilst Nick did his errand. Healths were drunk without words--just a nod, as much as to say, "To you, my hearty!"

Dan leaned across the table. "A thin, wiry, sallow-faced man; black-haired, black-eyed, supple as an eel, cunning as a cat; a scholar and travelled gentleman, who might easily be a cut-throat; one who professes the old faith, and swears by the Pope--ye know him?"

The elder of the two spies licked his lips uneasily, looked hurriedly from his companion to Dan, and from Dan back to his companion. The latter stared and blinked his eyes in embarrassment.

"Ye helped him in a little job in this very house about three months ago," pursued Dan. "D'ye know what he got out of it?"

"No."

"The very thing we want to get out of him. A sailor hid some papers in this very house--papers that point the way to untold wealth, the way to 'El Dorado's' land. I was with him when he learned the secret, and hurried back here to lay hands upon the precious packet. I was a little behind time. Now, if we are going in the Golden Boar, we must carry those papers with us. Ye both unwittingly played stalking-horse whilst another man got the treasure."

"And he paid us scurvily, the yellow-faced rascal!" cried the spies.

"And he will pay ye scurvily for spying upon the Golden Boar and Master Morgan, whom he hates. D'ye see how well I know the fellow and all his secrets? I could hang him an I could but lay hands on him. Are we to go on a blind expedition to the Indies, he laughing at us from the quayside, and straightway fitting a vessel at his leisure to garner in the wealth we may search for in vain?"

"By the saints, no! But we took him for an honester man."

"Ye did not know him; I do. Now, where is he to be found? There is no time to lose. I know he's not far off, but I had rather not waste precious hours in searching for him."

The two rascals, astonished at Dan's knowledge of their doings, fell into the trap he set for them. They jumped up. "We'll take ye to him at once!"

"Softly, friends! I know my man and his ways. Did he but catch sight of five of us approaching his hiding-place, we should never get a glimpse of him. Did he but see me with ye, our quest were in vain. Have I not said I know enough of him to hang him? Leave the business to me, and wait here with my friends. Would ye send five dogs barking and tearing through a wood to trap one fox? One silent hound, with a good nose, sharp teeth, silent tongue, and a knowledge of the fox's ways, would serve the purpose better. Let me know the lie of his den, and trust me for the rest."

The fellows fell in with Dan's plan. Truth to tell, they had seen a little of the sinister side of Basil's character, and had a pretty wholesome dread of him. Their new friend, who knew his man so well, was best fitted for the dangerous enterprise. They wished him joy of it, and would be content to share its fruits. To Dan's astonishment, they told him that Basil was hiding across the Sound in his own ancestral village.

"Heart o' me!" he exclaimed, "he is mine! Yon place is filled with my own kith and kin. The fox is in a very ring of dogs."

"Get not too many helpers, friend," said Nick cunningly, "else will the spoil be split into too many portions."

"Well argued!" exclaimed Basil's dupes. "Too many hands in the meal-tub means small share apiece."

"Never fear, comrades. A buss on the cheek or a handshake will be payment enough. I shall not tell them that they are helping me to lay fingers on the wealth of the Indies. Will ye take another flagon to wish me success? I must be going. The afternoon wears on, and night must be my time for work. Where shall we meet to-morrow?"

"Here, at noon," suggested Ned Johnson.

"Here, at noon," agreed Dan. He got up and went to the street door, and Nick went with him.

"Cunningly managed, Dan," he murmured. "'Tis better than putting sword to their throats and pricking out the information. Art going alone?"

"No; meet me at Ian Davey's boathouse at sunset. Let Ned keep an eye on yon two."

Chapter XXIX.

THE WIDOW'S HOUSE.

The springtide sun set ruddily and frostily across the Sound; and as the fiery ball hung for a moment on the western shore, a broad pathway like a pathway of rippling blood, or deep-tinged, running gold, went in a line from Ian Davey's boatyard to the Cornish coast.

"An omen!" cried Dan, seeing with the eye of the superstitious sailor. "We sail to wealth over a golden sea."

Nick shook his head. "The colour is not yellow enough for my liking. Is the boat ready?"

"Ay."

"Then let us be going whilst the breeze holds easterly."

Ian Davey's lad came out of the boathouse with a pair of oars on his shoulders. He went down to a little fisher boat that rocked gently against the end of the wooden jetty. The two sailor-men followed him. The mast was stepped, and they pushed out from the shore, the two men rowing and the lad steering. As soon as they were far enough out to catch the breeze the sail was set, and the little craft went bowling along over the fast-darkening sea. The oars were shipped, and Dan fell to musing. He tried to recollect the occasion of his last visit to the Cornish village from which his family had sprung, and was astonished to find that, in the sum of ten thousand leagues of travel since manhood, the little journey he was now taking did not once enter. He stroked his red beard, perplexed at the oddity of the whole thing. He pictured the steep, cobbled street leading up from the shore, and peeped into every remembered window in the row of rude thatched cottages. Slowly he recalled the names of old boy and girl companions who had played with him around the doorstep of his grandfather's house. For half the voyage the object which had prompted it was forgotten. The journey was as silent as a secret journey should be. It began in twilight and ended in darkness. The keel of the boat grated on the soft sand. Dan and Nick Johnson stepped out.

"How long will ye be?" asked Davey's lad.

Dan pondered. "Ye cannot get back without us; 'twill be a matter of hard rowing against the wind. I have been thinking. This place is hallowed soil to me, and my feet have not trodden it for thirty years. Bide thou here to-night; I will find thee supper and a pallet. There are many folk with whom I would fain speak now that I am here. Keep a still tongue concerning us: we will speak for ourselves. Tie up thy boat, and ask for John Pengelly. If he be dead, ask for any of his children; they will entertain thee for my sake."

Dan took his companion's arm, and climbed the tide-washed bank. He stood for a moment listening and peering into the darkness, then he made for the nearest cottage. The shutter was not closed, and the faint glow of leaping firelight shone through the oiled paper stretched across the bars of the lattice. The sailor turned to the door, and pulled the latch string.

"Peace be to you all, friends," he said. "'Tis the voice of a Pengelly that speaks."

"Come into the light, Pengelly. Your tongue doth not ring familiarly," came the answer.

Dan stepped forward, leaving Nick on the threshold.

A young fisherman and his wife sat in the narrow arc of the firelight, and beside them, on a deerskin, their little son basked in the genial warmth. The breeze through the open door fanned the glowing wood into flame.

"Close the door, friend," said the fisherman.

"I have a comrade on the threshold."

"Then bring him in."

Nick entered, apologizing for his intrusion, and giving his name, town, and profession as a guarantee of his honesty of purpose.

"Ye are welcome both," replied the fisherman. "We have supped, but the wife shall set meat and drink before you."

"We are fresh from eating and drinking," said Dan, "and have but looked in for a little chat, seeing that ye were not abed."

"Say your say, friends."

Dan did so, in his own roundabout fashion. He casually mentioned his voyages to the West, a theme of unfailing interest to any man dwelling on the shores of Plymouth Sound. Then he came to the real reason for his visit. He described the two sailors he had met in Plymouth. The fisherman had never seen them. Dan had guessed as much, but he wanted to be sure. Then he sketched Basil. The fisherman sat upright in a moment.

"I know him," he cried. "He has been amongst us, off and on, for more than a month. I'll take you to him."

But Dan would not trouble any one to do that.

"He knows me well enough," he replied, "and I would rather take him by surprise. We had a jolly time together last Christmas."

So the fisherman pointed out where Basil was staying, and his two callers took their leave, promising to look in upon him again in the morning.

Apart from the row of cottages stood the house in which Brother Basil was staying. At one time the place had made some pretensions to smartness. It was stone-built throughout and tiled. In the rear was an orchard of apple-trees; and a herb garden, now choked with weeds, separated the front of the house from the roadway. The place was in the occupation of a widow woman, whose late husband had once been a man of some means.

The night was sufficiently starlit for a sailor to pick his way with certainty, and the two men went rapidly forward. The gate in the fence stood ajar, and Dan went first to spy out the land. The front window was heavily shuttered, an unusual precaution to take on a fine night. Putting his eye to a chink, the sailor could just discern the shadowy outline of a man seated at a table. A rushlight stood beside him, and apparently he was reading. Passing on to the door, he found that the latch-string was pulled in through the latch-hole; the door was secure. Steadily, Dan pressed against it; it was firm as the wall, no play to and fro on latch and hinge. "Bolted," he muttered, and stole back to the fence, in whose shadow Nick was still standing. He whispered his report, and the two consulted together for a moment. Then both went round to the orchard, stole through a gap in the straggling hedge, and came over the grass to the rear of the house. A light shone through the unshuttered window.

"Ah!" exclaimed Dan, "this looks more like the home of honest people. Yon thief in front is bolted and barred. I warrant me the widow hath not pulled in her latch-string. We must open and enter. To knock would be to give warning to our man, who hath ears that gather sound quicker than doth a rabbit's."

"How will the widow take our incoming?" asked Nick. "We be two strangers, and night hath fallen. Should she cry out, we are undone; for the fishers would come upon us, and maybe lay us low without a chance to explain our errand. Thy monk-man, too, is a guest of the village. Should he sound an alarm, 'twould go hard with us if the neighbours took us for thieves and him for an honest man."

Dan paused. "Shrewdly spoken, comrade. But there is no time to go round the place and prove that we be honest Protestants and good sailors, whilst the little man is a thieving Papist and murderous traitor. We should cause clamour enough to give him warning and time for escape. We will get within. Thou wilt stay with the widow, and keep her from doing us a mischief. I will see to my man alone."

"If thou shouldst want help?"

"I will cry out for it quickly enough."

As Dan predicted, the latch-string still hung out. A gentle pull, and the well-used door swung open. The widow was in her kitchen, raking together the red embers on the hearth preparatory to going to bed. The noise of her scraping was sufficient to cover up the sounds at the door, and Dan was at her side, his fingers on her lips, ere she was aware of his presence.

"Sh!" he whispered in warning; "not a sound, good mother. We are friends, but thou art in danger; thy life depends on thy silence."

The poor woman paled, and shook in every limb. Dan whispered reassuringly, and removed his hand from her mouth.

"God 'a mercy!" she gasped.

Nick brought forward a stool and gently placed her upon it.

"Have no fear," he said; "I will stay with thee."

"Who are ye?"

"Friends and protectors, mother; honest sons of Devon, who have discovered a deadly plot. Lean thou on my shoulder."

Nick's whispers were soothing, his face was honest; the widow's brain was bewildered. She believed him, and clung to him in white terror. Dan saw that she was safe from any hysterical screaming, enjoined silence on both, and passed on towards the parlour where Basil was sitting. He paused for a moment to draw his sword, then tip-toed to the door. Leaning against the oaken post, he heard the rustling of paper. He set his teeth; there was a flash of light; the door had been opened and shut again, and the sailor and the Spanish agent stood face to face.

Basil's first emotion was one of the most absolute and complete astonishment. So surprised was he that he actually sat and rubbed his eyes as though to clear them from deluding visions. And in just that moment of stupefaction Dan acted. The papers were on the table: doubtless they were his papers. He lunged forward, spitted them on the point of his sword, and crammed them into his doublet by the time Basil was on his feet, and a dagger in his hand. The sailor expected a vicious spring from his adversary, but Basil made no move forward. His quondam roadside companion had the advantage of him in height, reach, and length of weapon, and he had related sufficient of his exploits during their Yuletide tramp to prove himself an apt swordsman. The ex-monk had been trained in a school that set guile above force. He saw at once that his tongue would be his better weapon, so put his dagger back into his belt, sat down and snuffed his candle.

"Thou art not going to fight?"

"Why should we do so? Sit down, Dan Pengelly, and explain thyself."

It was the sailor's turn to be astonished. He got a stool and seated himself, his back to the door, and his weapon across his knee. Basil laughed with assumed good-humour.

"Thou art careful, comrade."

"Thou hast tricked me once."

"And thou hast neatly tricked me. We cry 'quits.'"

"Not so."

"Why not? I have thy papers--I make no secret of that--and thou hast mine."

"Are not these the same?"

"No. But let us exchange, and give over all talk of robbery." Basil got up and went to a little press in the wall. Before opening the door he turned again to Dan. "Thou wilt observe that I am not afraid of turning my back to thee. I have more faith in thine honour than thou hast in mine."

The sailor flushed and fidgeted. "Thou didst deceive me under the guise of friendship," he muttered.

"Pshaw, man! thou wert undone by thine own foolishness. Why didst chatter to a stranger about thy papers? Is not all England agog to find the land of 'El Dorado'? Dost think that any man breathing could resist the temptation to gain a knowledge of the way thither? I suffer from no gold hunger, but I would like the honour of discovering that notable country. So wouldst thou; so would Admiral Drake. I shall have done thee no harm, but rather given thee a lesson in caution if I restore thy papers."

"Wilt do so?"

Basil opened the press, and tossed a packet on the table. "There they are."

Dan snatched it up, and turned it round and round in his fingers. "Why dost thou give them back?"

"They are thine, and thou hast come for them."

"Hast read them?"

"Of course."

"What is in them?"

"Maybe truth, maybe idle tales; their value remains to be proven. Come, thou hast thy packet; give me mine."

A cunning gleam came into the sailor's eyes. "I have not read thine. Can we fairly cry quits until I have done so?"

Basil bit his lip. "Canst read?"

"No."

"Then let me read them to thee. They are part of a treatise on philosophy which I am writing. The opinion of a plain man upon it would be valuable. I should like to have thine."

But Dan was no philosopher, and his present adversary had given him an excellent lesson in caution. He thrust his own packet into his doublet, to lie side by side with the other papers.

"Master Priest, Papist, and spy of Spain--for so I learn thou art--thy work is more likely to be the hatching of plots than the writing of learned books. Thou didst keep my papers for a time quite against my will, and without my consent; therefore shall I hold thine until I learn their contents. Tit for tat is reasonable justice 'twixt man and man."

Basil laughed. "Read me thy riddle," he said. "The world is narrow; thou art surely confounding me with some other man."

"That is possible. A few hours will decide the point. A certain Master Morgan of Gloucestershire and a well-known knight, Sir Walter Raleigh of Sherborne, are yonder in Plymouth town, and will be able to testify for or against thee. Thou shalt be haled before them to-morrow."

"That's work for a strong man, Dan Pengelly."

"There are many of my family in this village, and I did not come alone from Plymouth. The widow hath bonny company in the kitchen."

Basil's face blazed. "'Tis she hath betrayed me."

"Not so. We scared her worse than we scared thee."

Basil sat silent for a while, and Dan drummed on his sword-hilt with his fingers. At length the spy spoke again.

"I suppose it is useless to argue with thee?"

"I never had any head for disputations."

"Very well then, ye must be my guests for the night. Call thy friends from the kitchen, ask the widow for some ale, and let her be getting to bed. Thou and I may get to blows if we sit alone."

Dan stared. His prisoner was actually asking for an increased guard, and would be glad of more company. Not suspecting any trick, but determined not to be caught napping, he got up, opened the door, and stood with his hand on the latch calling for Nick. He bellowed twice before he got an answer. With Nick's answering shout he caught sound of a sudden crash in the room behind. He bounded back. Basil was gone; the window was opened. He dashed to the opening, and the trick was disclosed. The prisoner had silently unfastened the shutters, smashed the lattice, and escaped. Nick came running along. The alarm was given, and the whole village awakened to chase the Papist spy. They did not catch him.

Dan returned to Plymouth next morning and handed his papers to Sir Walter. The first packet proved to be a description of "El Dorado's" land, and a guide to the fabled region. It was the work of a Spanish missionary, and was written to King Philip himself. Basil's treatise on philosophy was none other than a letter from a Spanish agent in London, giving particulars of a plot against Elizabeth and in favour of the Queen of Scots. Raleigh declared the latter paper to be of immeasurably greater value than the Orinoco packet. The knight had had experience of such papers before, and knew, only too well, that they contained more fable than fact. He handed them to Captain John Drake, and left it to him and the gentlemen adventurers who were to sail with him to decide what faith they should put in the missionary's disclosures.

Chapter XXX.

HO! FOR THE SPANISH MAIN.

With a brisk nor'easterly breeze behind her, the Golden Boar slipped through the sunlit waters of Plymouth Sound as gracefully as a fair swan might cleave the bosom of a lake. Somewhat narrow in build, moderately low in the waist, with bow and poop not too high-pitched, masts tall and sails ample, she was built with an eye to speed. And with carved posts and rails for her bulwarks, many-windowed cabins in the after part, tapering, artistic prow with the gilded boar rampant, her designer had had an eye to beauty also. Hull and decks were of seasoned English oak, and masts of straight Scots pine. The Knight of Sherborne had found her building in Plymouth dockyard, and had tempted her would-be owner to part with her for a price he could not resist. Captain John Drake had tested her in the Channel from the Goodwins round to Lundy in fair weather and in foul, and had found no fault in her. The critical crowd that stood on the Hoe and watched her as she dipped below the horizon were of opinion that no better-found ship had left the harbour to brave the perils of the Spanish Main. She was of a hundred and fifty tons burthen--a goodly tonnage in those venturesome days--and she carried a captain and crew of twenty men, an equal number of skilled archers, six gunners, and some dozen and a half of gentlemen adventurers, who for the most part could handle rope, sail, sword, bow, pike, or gun as well as any captain might wish. As far as the voyage was concerned, the expedition was under the absolute command of the admiral's brother; on land he was bound to take council with the gentlemen adventurers, all of whom had put some money into the undertaking. Raleigh himself risked the greatest stake, and in order after him came Morgan, Captain Dawe (who did not participate in the voyage itself), the admiral, his brother the skipper, a certain Sir John Trelawny, and Master Timothy Jeffreys, who had secretly speculated his own savings and some of those of Mistress Stowe of Wood Street off Chepe. There was no lack of money in the venture, and the ship was well-found, well-manned, well-armed, and generously provisioned. Dan Pengelly's papers were in the cabin; Dan himself was taking first spell at the helm. Hope was high in every heart, and many a lusty voice joined in the chorus of the helmsman's song:--

"Then ho! for the Spanish Main, And ha! for the Spanish gold; King Philip's ships are riding deep With the weight of wealth untold. They're prey for the saucy lads Who dance on the Plymouth Hoe; They'll all sail home thro' the fleecy foam, With a rich galleon in tow-tow-tow, With a rich galleon in tow!"

Johnnie Morgan was leaning against the stern bulwarks, watching the heave and fall of the vessel and listening to the sailor's song. "Hardly to the text, Dan, is it? We are to capture a city and spoil its treasure houses, and have no idea of hitching a line of galleons behind us."

"Sir," replied Dan, "as chief helmsman I know we shall go south to the Azores and follow the Spanish track across the ocean. Ships of King Philip's we must meet, and maybe, at first, we shall bid them a good-morrow and kiss our hands to them. But Dons are Dons, and we are what our forefathers have made us. Ale and beef must fight salt fish and thin Canary. I have cut ox meat, drunk October, and ploughed the deep. I know the effect of all on a man's heart and head. I can drink with a Dutchman and dance with a Frenchman, but, St. George, his sword! steel springs from scabbard at the sight of a Spanish face. 'Tis the breed of us, and nature will out."

"And I am the last man to quarrel with my breeding. Well, we are set forth, and no man can say what may hap ere we see yonder line of cliffs again."

"True," mused Dan; "but if we break not faith with God and our captain, nought will happen for which a true man may grieve."

"Amen to that!" said Johnnie, and he fell to watching the sea once more.

Nothing could have been more propitious than the first part of the voyage. The course was south-west, and for days the wind blew steadily from the east or north-east. A low, misty line to larboard--the line of the French coast--was the last sight of Europe the adventurers had. For fifteen days after this the heaving sea met the whole circle of the gray-blue horizon. The days grew warmer and the winds softer as they voyaged south; the good ship was bearing them into the arms of summer. For some few days there was plenty of bustle aboard. Captain and crew overhauled the stores and stowed them more securely and handily; they critically studied the behaviour of their trim little craft as good seamen should; and the gentlemen adventurers became better acquainted with one another, and got their sea-legs and sea-stomachs. When the time came that heads and eyes were no longer turned backwards for a glimpse of familiar landmarks, but were strained forward towards the land of their hopes, then those aboard the Golden Boar had settled down, each in his own place, to form a happy brotherly community, linked by common hopes, aims, and interests. Sailors, soldiers, and men of gentle breeding fraternized freely together, each prepared to stand by the other in the last extremity of danger, or to share loyally in the fruits of good fortune. Harmony was complete, yet discipline was perfect; for the skipper was worthy of his name, and that name was the glorious one of "Drake."

It was an easy matter in those brave old times to get together an excellent ship's company. Men of all ranks and stations were wild for adventure, and bold sailors literally trod upon one another in their eagerness to be berthed aboard a ship chartered for a voyage to the magic New World. Captain Drake had picked and chosen at his leisure, and a man needed to be many-sided in his accomplishments to get his name inscribed on the ship's books. Take Dan Pengelly. He was an excellent sailor, as bold as a lion, and had sailed the western ocean before. But a hundred men in Plymouth could claim so much as that. Dan's precious packet and his skill as a singer were the deciding points in his favour. A capable band of musicians could be mustered from amongst the crew and the archers. Life aboard the Golden Boar was jolly enough, and no man in the whole company wished to be otherwhere. Glorious days! heroic hearts! and happy, happy, land that bred them!

The Azores were readied without accident, almost without incident, and Captain Drake sailed boldly into the harbour of Flores and sent ashore for fresh fruits and water. There were two Spanish vessels in the harbour, one a heavily-armed galleon of about six hundred tons. Like the English ship, she was going westwards, her destination being Vera Cruz, from which port she was to escort a treasure-ship filled with the produce of the Mexican mines. When the English captain heard this he resolved, other things failing him, to bear King Philip's treasure to Europe himself. His company was eager to be away, so a night and a day completed his stay at Flores.

And now for a full month, with varying winds and under changing skies, through storm and shine, the Golden Boar ploughed her ocean furrow in the path of the sun; and on the twenty-fourth of May she cast anchor in the bay of San Joseph, Trinidad. West and north of her lay the multitudinous islands of the fertile Indies. Southwards stretched the continuation of the great American continent, the land of so many dreams and hopes and desires. Johnnie Morgan stood with Master Jeffreys and gazed at the long-sought land--at its waving palms, its gleaming sands, the native huts, and the white houses of the Spaniards. A native boat shot out from the shore. Two dusky, pleasant-faced fellows stepped aboard. Johnnie went forward. He put out his hand and touched them with trembling fingers. Wonderful, new creatures!

Chapter XXXI.

IN THE BAY OF SAN JOSEPH.

The appearance of an English vessel in any harbour of Spanish America was the reverse of pleasing to the Spanish authorities. The Spaniards who commanded in the smaller stations were not of the best type of Castilian chivalry. Soldados of fortune, needy and unscrupulous adventurers, or intriguing favourites of some colonial governor, they had all the greed and arrogance of the noble Dons without their proud reserve and sense of chivalry and honour. In a hurry to get rich, they ground down the hapless natives into the dust. They robbed and ill-treated their timid dependants without fear or remorse, and exacted a cringing obedience that hid smouldering fires of hate and revenge. The Spanish troops were as lawless as their leaders, and black ink would turn red were one to attempt to tell the true tale of Spanish misrule and terrorism in the rich islands of the West. The Don looked upon the poor Indian as a chattel given over to him to do with according to his lordly will, and he usually acted in harmony with the extremest measure of his belief. And therein he differed wholly from those freebooting, audacious, devil-may-care sons of Devon and the west who followed in the Spanish wake across the Western Main. To the English mariner the gentle, heathen Indian was an object of compassion. God had given him a glorious land in which to dwell, and had heaped upon him riches that he could neither appreciate nor value; but in the higher characteristics of manhood, and in the blessings of religious revelation, He had denied him much, and so we find Drake, Hawkins, Raleigh, Gilbert, Oxenham, Whiddon, and a score of other bold captains on all occasions treating the natives with civility and even kindness. The poor, brown-skinned fellows soon learned to know friend from foe, and everywhere they came forth to welcome the blue-eyed sons of Albion, whilst they ran and hid themselves from the darker-hued children of Spain.

The commandant of San Joseph quickly learned that an English vessel had anchored in the bay, and he resolved to extend no courtesies whatsoever to the unwelcome visitors. On finding that the ship was a small one and without consorts, his resolution to treat her captain with disdain was strengthened. John Drake fired a gun to announce his arrival; the echoes boomed round the bay, but brought no answer from the fort. Another signal was fired, with a similar lack of result. The gunner, a grizzled old veteran, who had been buccaneering with the great admiral, turned to his captain. "Thy brother--God preserve him!--would send an iron messenger with his third salute."

John Drake smiled. "I'll send a gentle one first, Diggory," he said. He called up Master Jeffreys and Nick Johnson. "Which of ye two speaks the better Spanish?"

"I had the longer chance to learn the language," replied Nick, ruefully rubbing the place denuded of an ear; "but Master Timothy doubtless possesses the choicer collection of words."

"Quantity will serve us better than quality, perhaps. But go, both of ye, to the commandant and tell him that Captain Drake of the Golden Boar out of Plymouth will wait upon him at sunrise to-morrow. Take a ship's boat with four rowers and four archers, and let the Indians guide you."

A boat was instantly lowered, Nick made the Indians understand what was required of them, and the deputation rowed ashore. Their comrades watched them curiously, and an equally interested group of natives gathered on the shore to await their arrival.

The keel bit into the sand, the two messengers stepped out, and the escort of archers formed up behind them. The rowers pushed the boat back so that it floated easily, then shipped their oars and waited. One of the Indians, proud of his position, strutted importantly at the head of the small procession. (The unfortunate fellow was soundly whipped before nightfall for rendering any assistance to the hated English.) Natives hung about in little groups, but no Spaniard was seen until the gate of the castle was reached. There a sleepy sentinel yawned at them until they had repeated for the third time their request for an interview with the commandant. That officer was indulging in "siesta" and refused to be disturbed, and the deputation was still on the outer side of the gate. Master Jeffreys lost his patience and his temper. "My message to thy master, fellow, was a civil one," he exclaimed, "and to the effect that Captain Drake of Plymouth, Devon, England, would honour him by waiting upon him at sunrise to-morrow. Now, methinks, Captain Drake will come to him in less ceremonious fashion and without further delay." The irate Devonian turned on his heel and strode off.

And by so doing he missed the gratification of seeing the effect of his words. The name of "Drake" twice repeated acted as a talisman on the slumberous senses of the sentinel. His jaw dropped in sudden terror; he stared for a moment at the retreating figures, and then dashed into the castle at a run.

He burst in upon his drowsy commander.

"Alas, signor, what have we done! The army of the saints preserve us!"

"From what, blockhead?"

"From the archfiend in the flesh. 'Tis Drake that hath sailed into the bay."

The commandant sat and gaped in stupid affright.

"Drake!" shouted the soldier.

He had no need to say more. His officer's chin dropped on to his breast. "We are dead men," he muttered. "Why has he come hither? We have no gold, no treasure-ships. He will burn the place over our heads." The man continued muttering to himself and fingering the buckle of his loosened belt.

The soldier looked through the window. "The Englishmen stand on the beach," he said, "talking with Ayatlan, the chief. There is no movement on the ship; no one signals. The messengers were civil when they came."

"Son of a donkey!" blazed forth the commandant, "why didst not thou say so? Run after them; prevent them from carrying angry faces to the robber who rules them. If I had men--not sheep--under me, I would fight this Drake; I'd rid the world of him, and Pope and king should bless me. But run, run!"

And the soldier ran. Terror lent wings to his heels. One name rang through his brain, and the name was "Drake." He caught Master Timothy just re-embarking his little band. The sight of the Indians restored him to some measure of dignity, and he volubly explained that the Spanish captain had not understood the signer's message. He apologized profusely, and promised that his commandant would make amends for the mistake by paying the great sea-captain a visit as soon as a boat could be made ready.

Nick understood more of the rapidly spoken Spanish than did Jeffreys, and he was satisfied. "There has doubtless been a mistake," he said to his companion. "Probably this knave never carried our message properly. He is scared half out of his wits, and looks like a rogue condemned to be hanged. All's well that ends well. Let us be getting back to the ship with a friendly report."

About an hour later, the commandant, accompanied by an imposing retinue, both Spanish and Indian, rowed out to the Golden Boar. Captain Drake and the gentlemen of his company had been to their wardrobes and donned their best, and the visitors by no means carried off the prize for the splendour of their array. As far as physique was concerned the Dons were completely outclassed. Sallow and listless from tropical fevers and loose living, they stood in sharp contrast to the brawny, clear-skinned Englishmen. The difference was obvious even to their own proud eyes, and they felt it.

No sooner were the Spaniards aboard than they fixed their gaze on the group on the upper deck, and one thought prevailed in the minds of all--"Which was the terrible Drake?"

Morgan stood out above his fellows by a good head, but surely he was too young! The commandant had heard that Drake was no giant; he had also heard--and half believed--that he had horns, hoof, and a tail. The puzzle was solved. Captain Drake, short, burly, bearded, black-haired, bull-throated, but blue-eyed, stood forward; his air was unmistakably one of command. Master Jeffreys undertook the duties of master of the ceremonies, and the commanders were introduced to each other and gracefully bowed their acknowledgments of the honour.

The interview was short and formal. The Spaniard welcomed the Englishmen, and hoped that the peace would not be broken. Captain Drake echoed his hopes. The commandant offered presents of fruit, wine, and fresh meat; the skipper accepted and requited the kindness in suitable fashion. A few flagons of wine were drunk, and the interview ended. The company aboard the Golden Boar had no great opinion of their visitors, but the visitors had a better one of them. They had noted the spick and span order on shipboard, the bearing of the men, and they did not forget the name of the captain--they only made the mistake of confounding him with the great admiral, his brother.

Chapter XXXII.

A GLIMPSE OF THE FABLED CITY.

A week went by, and the Golden Boar still lay in the bay of San Joseph. Her captain and the Spanish commandant had exchanged many civilities, and the latter was surprised that the fire-eating Drake had committed no deed of violence. He suspected that some deep scheme lay hidden behind all this appearance of friendliness and courtesy. His suspicions were, in a measure, correct; he was wrong only in his idea of the nature of the Englishman's plans. Double guards were set round the fort each night, and the native chief was compelled to sleep within its walls. Morning after morning the Spaniards awoke, surprised to find that the hours of darkness had brought no sudden assault on the fortress. The natives freely visited the ship with fruit, flowers, and meats, and the English sailors spent hours ashore, wandering in the near forests or fraternizing with the natives on the beach. The Spaniards imagined their own midnight extermination was being planned, and therefore was the chieftain compelled to sleep within reach of a Spanish sword, and his subjects were given to understand that the first sound of tumult in the darkness would end Ayatlan's life. The commandant apparently forgot that the great admiral had sacked towns three times the size of San Joseph with a less capable force than the crew of the Golden Boar.

Truth to tell, Captain Drake had never once contemplated any attack on San Joseph; he valued the place at less than a scratch on an Englishman's skin. His stay in the harbour was dictated solely by a desire to glean information concerning the Orinoco and the land of gold that he sought. The delta of the great river lay, the nearest land, to the south of the island; the natives professed to know much of the river and the tribes dwelling on its banks, and they exchanged mysterious nods and signs one with another when "El Dorado" was mentioned.

Presents were liberally bestowed, and promises were scattered broadcast. Dan Pengelly and the two Johnsons, often accompanied by Master Jeffreys and Morgan, spent hours at the doors of native huts, eagerly questioning the Indians, or listening to long, jumbled stories, eked out in a jargon of Spanish and Indian. Almost invariably they came away as wise as they went. The natives either knew nothing of real significance or would not disclose their secrets.

The adventurers grew impatient. They were in no mood to spend day after day idling off a dirty Spanish-Indian settlement. Their thoughts aye fled southwards, and they wanted to spread sail and follow their thoughts. Dan's papers had been read and re-read until many knew them by heart. But they obviously contained little, save rumours and vague indications of locality. What the eager adventurers wanted were definite directions as to route and distances, and also a native guide along the lower reaches of the river. At length both appeared to be forthcoming.

Ayatlan came aboard early one morning and asked for the captain. Ushered into the cabin, where a council was being held, he bowed himself down to the floor, then squatted on a mat and began his story without further prelude.

"My white brother, who has come from the great and good White Mother that rules the rising sun, is growing angry with Ayatlan because he has not told him that which his heart so desires to know."

"My Indian brother has received gifts and made promises; the promises have not been kept. I do right to show anger," replied Drake sharply. "The Spaniards would have flogged Ayatlan, and maybe have killed his sons, for such bad faith and crooked dealing."

The chief bowed. "Spaniards are beasts and the children of beasts. The Englishmen are sons of the Father of Heaven, and Ayatlan prays to them as to his gods. Why has my brother grown soft-hearted to his enemies and mine? The tongue of rumour tells how he has eaten up their armies at a mouthful. Is my brother grown old and toothless?"

John Drake flushed. He had had more than one reminder that the admiral, his brother, would have acted more energetically than he had done. But the younger man was by nature more cautious and diplomatic. He made answer: "My teeth are sound, Ayatlan, and the fire of manhood is still in my heart. Do not foes sometimes make peace for a while?"

"True; but when one makes peace with them that hate him, he is guilty of folly, for the enemy gathers strength whilst at rest, and waits to strike at an advantage."

"What has all this to do with the thing I seek?"

"Ayatlan has been working for his white brother since the hour when his ship came into the bay. He has thought night and day how he might help him to the desires of his heart."

"Well?"

"Last night a youth from another tribe came into the village with one of my messengers. He knows the great river, and hath journeyed many days on its bosom. He will guide the children of the great White Queen to the city of the 'Gilded One.'"

The quiet announcement thrilled the whole cabin. Here was the end of uncertainty. Drake grasped the chieftain by the hand. "What bargain doth Ayatlan wish to make?" he asked.

"I make no bargain," was the proud rejoinder. "Have I not given my white brothers joy? They will not forget. The guide waits in my boat."

"Let us speak with him."

The chief spoke to one of his attendants, and the guide was brought in. The adventurers looked at him with great curiosity; he was an object of the intensest interest to them. The youth's appearance was not prepossessing. To begin with, he was very dirty; the rags of a Spanish doublet hung about his body; legs and feet were bare, but a battered helmet, several sizes too large, covered his head and came down about his ears; a pair of cunning eyes peeped from under the bent rim of the headpiece, and quickly took in the details of the gathering. The hearts of the adventurers sunk at the first sight of the ludicrous and somewhat sinister personage. So this was the long-sought guide to whom they were to submit their lives and fortunes! Not one present liked the prospect.

There was a moment's silence. "Tell the zany to uncover," exclaimed the captain. Then he turned to Ayatlan. "Will my brother tell the young man what we want with him, and question him as to his fitness for the duties he offers to fulfil?"

"He will speak for himself. He has been a servant of the Spaniards, and knows their tongue better than I do."

Master Jeffreys took the young Indian in hand, and questioned him pretty closely. He answered glibly enough, with a "Yes" to almost every question. He had been many voyages up the Orinoco.

"How many?"

He held up the fingers of one hand. One voyage had lasted from the first night of the young moon until it was full.

What did he know of the city of gold?

Apparently he knew everything. The city lay on the headwaters of the river under the great mountains. A mighty lake lay at the foot of the city. The sands of the lake were composed of the yellow gold that the signers desired.

Had he met any one who had visited the city?

Yes; an Indian trader. He had once come into the camp of his Spanish masters when they were many days' journey up the great river. His masters had used him as interpreter. The houses of the city were of dazzling white stone, and the roofs of plates of gold. The people bathed in the lake on certain festival days, and afterwards sprinkled themselves so thickly with the precious yellow dust that they looked like golden images. Yes; they had temples, and the gods were of gold, and sacrifices were offered on golden altars. Sparkling stones, such as the signers loved, were found in the waters of the lake.

How far off was the city?

Oh! many moons' journey. No; the inhabitants were not warlike. They would welcome the white strangers from the land of the rising sun, and give them yellow dust and sparkling stones as much as their hearts desired. Yes; the dangers of the way were great, for many forests and swamps must be passed; roaring waterfalls blocked the passage of the river. The flow of the waters was fierce, the tides strong, and there was a thousand channels to bewilder the voyager. But he knew the way through the maze of waterways.

Could he guide the Englishmen?

He could. He hated the Spaniards, and would never act as guide to those who oppressed his own nation. But the Englishmen were brothers to the Indian.

What reward did he desire?

Clothes like those worn by his white brothers, and a sword to slay his enemies.

Needless to say, a bargain was struck forthwith. The guide clapped on his shapeless headpiece and strutted off, a happy man. He had told not a few lies; indeed, he had agreed with everything the adventurers seemed to desire, and spun them the yarns he had heard from the Spaniards, which tales he knew would gratify his new audience. And well-nigh a score of brave but credulous men shook hands with one another most gleefully, rubbed those same hands in joyous anticipation, and confidently looked forward to fabulous wealth and the glories of the city of marble and gold, the matchless capital of "El Dorado."

Chapter XXXIII.

WANDERING IN A MAZE.

"Land ho!"

The idlers on deck sprang to their feet, and the cabins were speedily emptied of their occupants. All eyes turned southwards. Nothing visible save the horizon, gray with the heat-haze of noon, and the gray-blue waters that heaved up to meet it. But the sailor in the crosstrees could see what was invisible to those on the deck. The gazers looked at him. He extended his forefinger over their heads.

"Land ho!" he cried again; "leagues of it, stretching east and west!"

The adventurers crowded into the bow of the boat, leaning over the bulwarks to larboard and starboard. Presently a sinuous line, darker gray than the rest of the horizon, could be discerned above the surface of the ocean. It lifted, cleared; the gray deepened to black; the low coast of the Orinoco delta was revealed. The crew raised a resounding cheer, and the gentlemen of the company waved their caps in the air. Yacamo, the guide, stood in the forepeak of the ship, the centre of an eager group. Yonder was land; for what point of it should they steer? Master Jeffreys was endeavouring to settle that question. The Indian was pouring out a torrent of coast Spanish, and gesticulating with every sentence. The Devonian explained the situation to his comrades.

"From what I can gather," he said, "the arms of the river embrace about fifty leagues of coastline similar to that which confronts us. In this stretch there are at least a hundred mouths, connected one with the other by thousands of cross channels. The whole delta is a bewildering maze of waterways. Some of these are deep enough to carry our ship well into the country; others are too shallow to float a ship's boat. Moreover, the guide says that he has had a free passage up a channel on one occasion that was impassable on another because of the shifting sandbanks. One of the main mouths is very deep, but the current is also of great strength. We take risks whatever we do."

"Is he sure that we are approaching the Orinoco coast?"

"Quite."

"That will do, then. We will skirt it until he recognizes a landmark."

The light breeze held steady, the tide was running in; so fair progress was made. The land now stood out quite distinct from the water. Dark masses of woodland could be discerned standing back on the fringe of the tidal mud, but no opening was visible in the low, dark line. Without going farther in, the ship's course was altered until it was parallel with the coast, and all the afternoon they held steadily along, looking for some landmark familiar to the Indian. But the coast was so monotonous in its regularity that distinguishing features were not plentiful. It was nearly sunset when, following an inward curve of the shore, they discovered that they were in the mouth of a wide estuary. The banks were miles apart, but, the tide being out, a turbid current was distinguishable, flowing in great volume seawards. The wind, for the time, had practically died down, and the current began to swing the ship round, and bear her back to the Atlantic. Soundings were taken, and about three fathoms of water discovered, where at least twenty times that depth had been anticipated. This was disappointing, for it was evident that they had turned into one of the shallow mouths, and navigation might come to an end a few miles up. Captain Drake dropped anchor well away from the shore and its pestilential night mists, and made all snug against the morning. He recognized that the navigation of the river was going to be no easy matter, and he decided to go warily.

The tide ran again about midnight, and on the early morning ebb the Golden Boar stood out to sea once more, and went in search of a more promising opening. They found one that Yacamo thought he knew, and, taking advantage of the afternoon tide, they ran up nearly twenty miles. The current was almost as strong as the tide, and they had to anchor against the ebb, or be swept out to sea quicker than they had come in. The next morning they went on again, and were fifty miles up the channel by nightfall. Away to right and left were masses of flat, swampy land, the intersecting waterways reddening and glistening in the setting sun.

The numerous channels and jutting stretches of land so broke the force of the tide that hardly any headway was made the next day, and a council was held to determine methods for further progress.

Captain Drake was of opinion that it was impossible to continue the passage of the river in the ship. Rigorous questioning and cross-questioning of Yacamo brought out further ugly reports of the shifting nature of the river-bed, and of the frequency of shallows. A stay of a couple of days in the anchorage was resolved upon, and during that time exploration by means of boats was to be pushed along vigorously.

But it was easier to decide this matter than to carry the decisions into practice. Three boats were sent out the next day just after sunrise. All pursued a more or less southerly course through the channels, and by noon all three crews had lost themselves in the maze. The waterways were all alike, muddy, tree-bordered, steamy, oppressively malodorous, and swarming with reptiles. Moreover, they laced and interlaced so frequently, crossing like the threads in a woven fabric, that any idea of direction was impossible. The giant trees shut in the channels from one another, and no boat's crew could see many yards ahead. In the afternoon, gun-fire from the ship gave the voyagers a cue to their whereabouts, and a guide back to safety. The scheme of exploration in order to find a safe passage for the ship had failed.

An anxious day followed. Would the mighty river never yield up its golden secret? Were the adventurers to be baffled and foiled after their thousands of leagues of journeying? The guide declared that the Spaniards had got hundreds of miles farther up the river, but by means of galleys of forty to sixty oars apiece. The Golden Boar had no such craft aboard. Three good ships' boats she had, the largest capable of holding about a score of men with arms and provisions, the others with capacity for about half that number. The largest boat was fitted with a mast, and a gun might be mounted in the bow.

No man was in the mind to turn back, and progress by boat was resolved upon. What should be done with the ship? She must not be wholly abandoned, for she was wanted for the voyage home. Some counselled that she should be taken back to Trinidad and harboured there for three months, coming back to the river again at the end of that period. Others were for hiding her, as Oxenham had hidden his ship; but Nick and Ned Johnson were loud against any such proceeding. A plan suggested by Trelawny was to the effect that half the company should go buccaneering amongst the islands in the Golden Boar, whilst the other half should try for "El Dorado's" land, the spoils of each expedition to be put into the common fund, and then shared according to the terms of the cruise. A few reckless spirits agreed to this, but Captain Drake would make no such division of his forces. To do so, he argued, would be to weaken both parties to the verge of powerlessnesa.

Matters were at a deadlock. Then Dan Pengelly went hunting, and caught a native canoe and two natives. He brought them to the ship. Yacamo could make himself understood. He persuaded the Indians that his masters were not Spaniards, but tender-hearted white men, who loved the brown man like a brother. Generosity in the matter of presents helped the faith of the two men. They declared their willingness to help the white strangers. Their own village was near at hand, hidden in the wooded recesses of an island, and they had intercourse with other villages along the delta, and could guide the adventurers through the network of channels to the main stream.

But the problem what to do with the ship remained unsolved. The two natives declared that it was impossible to get her into the main river; and even if that could be done, her voyage up-stream would be short, as waterfalls blocked the passage.

Captain Drake and a small retinue proceeded to the Indian village, and talked with the chief. He proved friendly enough, and quite willing to help, when he found that the newcomers were foes to his oppressors, the Spaniards. He paid a return visit to the ship, and, learning the difficulty concerning her, offered to hide her in a deep pool on the eastern side of his own island. She could there be effectively screened. A survey of the spot and the channels leading to it showed that the plan was feasible; and, with ship's boats and native canoes, the Golden Boar was towed to her anchorage, and preparations for the boat journey were at once begun. The vessel was dismasted, her guns buried, and the ammunition safely stowed in an empty hut. Masts and sails were fitted to the two smaller boats, and the chief furnished a large canoe and rowers for the carriage of stores. Two other canoes of stronger make were constructed, and at the end of twelve days Captain Drake had a flotilla of five boats under his command. Sixty men were to form the expeditionary force; one gentleman adventurer, one ship's officer, two soldiers, and two seamen--all chosen by lot--being left behind in the native village in charge of ship and stores.

Chapter XXXIV.

FLOOD AND FEVER.

The Indians were as good as their word. Headed by the chief's canoe, the adventurers passed in steady procession through more than a hundred miles of delta waterways. Progress was slow, for, though the current in the cross channels was not strong, the wind was hardly felt; the heat was stifling, and rest during the midday hours absolutely necessary. Then there were villages to be visited, presents to be made to the chieftains, and feasts to be eaten in return. Haste was impossible, though very desirable. The rains were beginning, the river would soon be in flood, and pestilence would stalk through the swampy regions like a destroying angel.

At last the apex of the delta was reached, and the broad river--stretching miles from bank to bank--lay before the navigators. The milk-white current, laden with chalky washings from the land, swept by in a mighty flood. On its bosom floated trees and detached masses of soil, going northwards to build up the growing delta. But for the wind and the guidance of the natives the adventurers would have made no headway against the mighty volume of the waters. Happily the North-East Trades from the Atlantic, unimpeded by mountain or hill, blew with steady and strong persistence across the flat delta and along the level plains through which the river made its way. Sandbanks in the bed diverted the current here and there, making quiet, lake-like pools under the banks. The Indians knew of these, and skilfully made use of them. Sails were spread to the breeze, and the flotilla went steadily on its way.

One week went by, and then another. The weather grew worse and worse. Terrific storms swept across the plains, lashing the Orinoco into fury, tearing down the mighty trees on its banks, and deluging the intrepid voyagers. The banks of the stream were almost lost; hundreds of square miles of forest-clad plain were under water, the tree-tops alone showing the navigators the true course of the river. The flood flowing sea-wards became thicker, deeper, and mightier than ever. The humid heat of the stormy summer became well-nigh unbearable. Men sickened, and in a few cases died. Camping ground at night was almost unobtainable, and thick, poisonous mists enwreathed the boats during the hours of darkness, fevering the men's blood, cramping and stiffening their limbs. It became imperative to call a halt for a while; the enfeebled rowers made scant progress against the strengthening current, and the success achieved was not worth the effort that was made. A pile-supported village was sighted, and the Indian guides turned their boat thither, the others following.

The village stood on some rising ground on the western bank of the stream, and in the dry season must have been at least half a mile from the margin of the waters. Now the floods rolled between the piles, submerging at least ten feet of them. Native canoes were tethered to the supports, and the house platforms were soon covered with knots of brown-skinned fellows full of anxiety and apprehension concerning the oncoming fleet. They knew the ship's boats for those used by the white men who came trading or raiding along the river, and wondered to find them attempting a voyage at such a time. The friendly Indians went forward and explained who the white men were, and what they wanted, and the villagers proved kind and confiding, as indeed had all the natives dwelling along the river. They gave up room in their huts to the fevered men, sleeping out on the platforms themselves, and for a few days the expedition rested and recuperated.

The sun had set, the moon was above the tree-tops, steadily making for its zenith. A group of three--Johnnie Morgan, Timothy Jeffreys, and Dan Pengelly--sat on the platform of one of the huts, their legs dangling over the edge within a couple of feet of the water. The day had been fiercely hot, and the water around had steamed like a smoking cauldron. With the moon had come a brisk breeze, that swept the stagnant, mouldy vapours away, and left a clear landscape and cool air. Dan was stuffing tobacco into a pipe of bamboo, and urging the two gentlemen to follow his example, the smoke of the weed being, he declared, an antidote against the malarial poisons breathed out by the foul mud and rotting vegetation that surrounded them. The old sailor had enjoyed marvellously good health throughout the river voyage, and, forgetting his previous travels, and the natural toughness of his constitution, put his happy condition down to his daily pipes of the fragrant Indian weed. But his two companions were too languid for indulgence in smoking. Their heads were giddy, their hearts throbbing, and their stomachs at war with all solid food. The tropical marsh fever had them in its grip, and the grasp was tightening every moment. The trees swayed dismally in the breeze, and the birds chattered querulously at being disturbed. The waters "lap, lapped" monotonously against the piles, and horny-backed alligators nosed amongst them, seeking for scraps and offal or any stray eatables that came their way. Moths and fireflies flitted about in such numbers that the air seemed alive with them. All around was a vast, shallow, fresh-water sea--rolling, heaving, sucking, lapping, shimmering under the tropical moon. A night full of majesty, beauty, mystery, and death.

Dan curled himself comfortably against a pillar, closed his eyes, and smoked with keen enjoyment. Morgan and Jeffreys gazed for a while with aching eyes at the weird scene around; then the heavy lids dropped, and they fell a-dreaming.

Johnnie was back in the cool forest by Severn side; the oaks and the beeches swayed above him, and the bracken rustled as a rabbit scuttled through. The nightingale was singing his love song to his mate and the moon, and the dull, far-off roar of the rushing tide sounded a low accompaniment to the song. Gone were the white, warm, mud-laden waters, the floating trunks, the screaming parrots, the croaking frogs, the howling beasts; the glare of the sun no longer hurt his eyes, and its fierce heat no longer sent his brain throbbing and burning. The air was cool, the bracken sweet, and the bird trilled out its passionate music. Why should he sit uncomfortably propped against a tree? He would lie down, and let the fresh, green fronds curl above him. He sighed, his limbs relaxed, he swayed--he fell with a heavy splash into the warm, lapping waters!

A nosing alligator swished his tail against a pile and darted off in sudden alarm; but he came round again speedily, just as the half-fainting man roused sufficiently to be conscious that he was in the water. Jeffreys was asleep, but Dan's sailor senses were alert in an instant. His eyes opened, he glanced around, missed Morgan, and peered over into the flood. The fallen man cried out, and the huge reptile that had espied him moved off again. Dan saw both, shouted in alarm, and hurled a handy log at the prowling horror; then he swung himself, monkey fashion, down a stout pile, seized Morgan by the hair, and brought him so that he got a grip of the platform. A minute later Johnnie swung himself into safety, and only just in time, for more than one scaly reptile had scented the feast, and was hurrying through the moonlit waters, eager and voracious. This unlucky sousing in the flood settled the grip of the fever on Morgan. When next he sunned himself on the platform the waters had subsided, the mud was baked and cracking, and the major portion of the expedition leagues away southwards.

Chapter XXXV.

A FOE.

Johnnie Morgan was not the only sick man left behind in the Indian village. Master Jeffreys had had the strong hand of the fever upon him; and the son of the parson of Newnham, like his neighbour and friend the Blakeney yeoman, found the air of the Orinoco less invigorating than the air of the Severn. With the three sick men had been left three sound men as guard and escort. Two of these, the Johnsons, had elected to remain with their friend Master Timothy, and a soldier had been chosen to keep them company. Johnnie was the last of the three invalids to recover; indeed, the others had made plans for their journey in the wake of the main expedition long before he was fit to take his place in the boat.

It was fortunate for the six left behind that all, save one, were experienced navigators, and that two of these had had the opportunity of sailing boats on the Severn, the most treacherous of all English tidal rivers. The boat built after the fashion of a native canoe was left for them; they rigged a mast and small sail, fixed a rudder, and, with a native of the village as guide, set off a little after sunrise one morning.

For many days the voyage was uneventful enough. Captain Drake had gone before, and the natives were everywhere eager to welcome the Englishmen and render them every assistance. They were warned of dangers in the river, which still ran strongly, and was in places a couple of miles in width. Guides were readily provided, and everything done to hasten them on their way. Their light boat went splendidly; they were spared many of the ceremonious visitations that had fallen upon their captain, and often, during the day, made two miles of progress to one made by him over the same stretch of river. Each sunset found them nearer and nearer to the main body, and they were quick to notice that the latter were going slower and slower every day.

The country was no longer monotonously flat, as it had been whilst the river swept along through the llanos. Hills now rose up to right and left; great mountains loomed up dimly against the skyline; and the low, muddy banks gave way to towering limestone cliffs, their natural whiteness hidden by the luxuriant, clinging vegetation. Shallows in the river were no longer sandy and sluggish, but rapids were the dangers to navigation. The air was cooler and fresher, the vegetation was that of drier soil and drier atmosphere, insect life was less noxious, and the labours of the way grew more endurable.

But as the perils from nature decreased, those to be apprehended from man increased. The adventurers had long passed the most southerly point of Spanish influence. Hitherto they had found docile Indians, who had learned to fear the white man and his strange weapons, and to hate one section of the white race--namely, the Spanish. The Englishmen were white, and possessed the moral power of the race over ruder peoples; they also came as foes and rivals to those who ill-treated the long-suffering native; hence they had been everywhere treated with awe, not unmixed with real affection. As far as the inhabitants of the land were concerned, their voyage had been a sort of triumphal procession.

But inhabitants of hilly or mountainous land are always hardier and less docile than their brethren of the fat plains. The Indians on the hilly fringes of the Orinoco basin were no exception to this rule. They had heard of the white man; refugees from the lower lands had spread reports of his rapacity and cruelty, and of the scorn with which he treated the poor brown man. They were resolved that he should not lay hands on them or their treasures without a struggle. And so it came to pass that one day the messengers of Captain Drake returned to him with reports of a very rough reception from a native dignitary.

Although annoyed by this rebuff, the adventurers attached but little importance to it. Perhaps the native messenger had been clumsy over his diplomatic dealings; maybe the hill chieftain had misunderstood him: a second mission should be sent with suitable presents. Accordingly, two of the gentlemen of the company, attended by half a dozen soldiers and as many natives, left the camp on the river-bank and threaded the steeply-pitched woods to the native village. An Indian scout was thrown out in front, on the flanks, and in the rear, and the white men kept solidly together in the centre.

They met with no opposition by the way, and in due time came out of the trees and found themselves on a plateau about a mile square. On the farther edge of this stood a cluster of stone-built huts, evidently surrounded by a rude but effective wall. Before them stretched fields of Indian corn, tall and green after the heavy rains. The evidences of native civilization were greater than any the adventurers had hitherto met. They halted for a brief consultation, then went forward again, resolved to do their errand discreetly and warily. Not one inhabitant was in sight, but, as the wall was neared, slim, brown figures were espied slipping through the waving grain towards the gate.

A close view of the wall showed that the village was a fortress as well as a place of habitation. The stones were rough from the hillside, and quite untrimmed, but patience in selection and arrangement had produced a compact rampart that could not easily be shattered or stormed. The gate was of wood, and towered some feet above the top of the wall. It was shut.

Sir John Trelawny was in command of the embassy, and he directed one of the soldiers to go forward and sound a summons on his bugle. The man did so. The musical notes rang back in double echoes from the hills, and brought a hundred dark heads above the ramparts. Again the soldier sent the sweet echoes flying. The strange notes had their effect on the villagers, for a man came from the gate to the strangers and asked their business. The Indian interpreter, who had been carefully schooled on his way up, and who, moreover, was proud of the trust reposed in him by the formidable white men, gave a dignified and courteous answer. The white men were, he explained, creatures of another world, a world that lay beneath the rising sun; the sun was their father, and his glory was in his children's faces. They held the thunder and lightning in the hollow of their hands, and could slay men almost at a nod. Yet by nature they were kindly and generous, wishing harm to none. They were passing down the river to a city of gold of which they had heard; during the weeks of their voyage they had not laid an unkindly hand on any man, nor appropriated any man's goods. His own people, and all the tribes along the river, loved and reverenced their white brothers, and would die for them.

The villager listened gravely enough, then swung round towards the gate, saying he would carry the message to his chief faithfully and without alteration. At the end of about half an hour he reappeared. His chief would not see the white men, nor provide them with anything. He had heard that the children of the sun were cruel and rapacious, murdering and burning without mercy if they thought that thereby they might get any of the yellow metal their souls lusted after so strongly.

The interpreter replied that this was true of one section of white men, but his brothers were the enemies of those monsters, warring with them whenever they met them. His brothers were the lordly eagles, and were called "English;" the others were the voracious birds that stalked in the mud, feeding on garbage; the chief had heard of these last, the "Spaniards."'

The villager went away again, but returned quickly with his message unaltered; the chief would not trust the strangers. It was useless to ask him for guides to any city of gold, or to the shores of any lake such as the white men desired. He had never heard of these places, and did not believe they existed. The whole story was a trick to get the country out of the hands of its inhabitants. The trick had worked in the plains where the men had the hearts and brains of sick women; it would not succeed with the "Brown Eagles" of the hills. Let the "White Eagles" from the sun try their strength and wit against them if they so desired.

This answer was uncompromising enough, and with it the messengers went back again to the river. They had looked only into the face of one man of a tribe of a thousand hillmen.

There was a long council round the camp fire that night, and for the first time for some weeks sentinels were set, and keen watch and ward kept until daybreak. A further consultation was held in the morning, after each man had slept upon the suggestions of the previous evening. It was not easy to decide upon a course of conduct. Hitherto the adventurers had pursued their way in peace, and they were anxious to avoid hostilities with the natives. They saw that nothing could be gained by fighting the Indians. They were but a small company in a strange land, and a thousand miles and more from the sea; their object was gold, not conquest. Should they go on their way, leaving the unfriendly chief in the security of his fastness? By so doing would they be leaving an enemy in their rear? On the other hand, should they bring him to his knees, and teach him to respect and fear the name of England? How would their line of conduct operate on the minds of the natives? The point was a delicate one. Some were for pushing ahead, reaching their goal, and dealing with the hill village on their return; others were hot to chastise the stubborn Indian at once, and break the back of native opposition at a blow. Such was the Spanish method, and no man could say that the Dons had not gotten wealth enough.

The latter council prevailed, and it was decided to attack the native stronghold that very night under cover of the darkness. The solitary cannon was taken out of the largest boat and fitted with slings, so that the Indian allies might carry it. Arquebuses were diligently cleaned, and all arms and armour attended to.

The forenoon passed busily enough. During the hot hours the men slept beneath the trees. An hour before sunset supper was served out, and whilst the men were eating it, a boat shot round the bend, and a loud "Halloo!" announced the arrival of Morgan and his companions. This unexpected addition to the fighting strength was heartily welcomed.

Chapter XXXVI.

THE ATTACK ON THE VILLAGE.

Forty Englishmen, with Indian carriers and scouts, stole out from the river-side camp under the clear light of the tropical stars. The villagers on the hills slept in a false security. Spies had hung about the river all day; but the preparations had no meaning for them, except that they probably signalized an early departure. They had witnessed the arrival of the other boat, and had sped to their chieftain with the news. But the idea of a night attack on their stronghold never occurred to them. This newest type of white man, they had been told and really believed, fought with their own kind only. The Indians shut and barred their great gate, curled themselves up on couch of skins or reed matting, and fell into the deep sleep of the tired savage.

The friendly scouts had so learned every turn and obstacle in the upward path from the river that they could have walked it in the blackest darkness, and the metallic light from the clear heavens was more than sufficient for the keen-eyed mariners. One torch was carried for the firing of the big gun and for the lighting of the matches of the arquebusiers, but its yellow glare was shrouded in a soldier's helmet.

The strip of forest was passed, and the men filed out on the plateau. A breeze from the neighbouring heights stirred the green patches of corn. A scout came back, and whispered that the way was clear. The band moved forward.

The dull, gray mass of the village loomed dimly ahead. No light was visible, but a thin column of smoke from the communal fire rose above the walls and bent away before the wind.

The adventurers were within gunshot of the gate. The big gun was silently fitted to its carriage, loaded and shotted; and the native allies ran back into the corn and hid themselves, quaking with terror.

There was a flash of red flame, a loud roar that came back in echoing thunder from the hills, the crash of the iron ball against the gate. The villagers started from sleep, and looked around in dismay. Another flash, another roar, another crash, a pealing of strange thunder. Then a shout in a strange tongue: "For England! Mother England!" The children of the sun, the wielders of the thunder and lightning, were through the broken gate.

Then arose a mad stampede of terror. The arquebusiers were within the rampart, and death-fire and nauseous smoke spurted from a dozen different places. With squeals and shrieks, as from a mob of terrified brutes, men, women, and children dashed for the walls and the farther outlets in mad flight for the hills.

"Make for the chief's house. Kill no man unless he opposes you," was the order; and a shouting band soon surrounded the great house in the centre of the village. Some fired the thatched roofs, and a red glare shot up to the blue sky. The cries and screams of the scurrying tribe grew fainter and fainter. But the sturdy headman was not with them. Spear in hand, and alone, he faced his terrible foes, eyes and teeth fiercely gleaming--a bronze Hector. He lunged at the foremost man, and Master Jeffreys knocked him down with the flat of his sword. Instantly Morgan and three or four others threw themselves upon him. He writhed and twisted like a limbed snake, and bit and tore with teeth and hands. But the odds were hopelessly against him; a rope in a sailor's practised hands wound about his body, and he lay, a panting prisoner, across his own threshold. A few others of the villagers were seized, the rest of the roofs were fired, and the adventurers marched back to the river. No spoil was taken.

[Illustration: The odds were hopelessly against him.]

The next morning the rank and file of the prisoners were set at liberty. A present was given to each one, and it was impressed upon them that the white strangers bore them no ill-will, and would not again molest the village if its inhabitants conducted themselves with due deference and friendliness. They had punished them for their churlishness and disrespect, and had no thought of doing them further mischief if they profited by the lesson given them. The men departed, astonished at the clemency shown them.

During the day the major portion of the villagers came back from the mountains and woods, and set stolidly to work repairing their homes. One of the released prisoners ventured to come down to the white men and beg permission to cut rushes for the rethatching of his dwelling. He was quickly told that the river and its rushes were as free to him as ever they had been; and some of the adventurers cut rushes themselves, and told the fellow to let the people know that a supply awaited them.

These wise measures went far to conciliate the natives. They had learned that they must not oppose the strangers, but they also were fairly assured that the white men were not the robbers and destroyers that rumour had represented them to be. Some of them came freely enough into the camp, bartering produce for gaudy trinkets; but, to the intense disappointment of the company, none seemed to know anything about the "Gilded One" or the marvellous city in which he dwelt.

The expedition moved on--rapids, rocks, gorges, and waterfalls impeding the way. The heat was intense; and when at times long marches were necessary, in order to avoid obstacles in the river, the labour of tugging the boats was alike heartbreaking and limb-breaking. More than once the wisdom of leaving the river and marching overland was discussed. But the river was at least a sure path, according to all reports. It led to Lake Parimé and its golden sands and wondrous city. The men grew feverish and unbalanced with anxiety and disappointed hopes. Night after night they were to be found in groups, listening to Yacamo or the Indians from the delta as they retold for the thousandth time the story of "El Dorado;" others would sit beside Master Jeffreys whilst he read and translated Dan's papers; and any words that fell from the Johnsons, and others who had sailed the Spanish Main before, and heard the Spanish stories of fabulous Indian treasures, were stored up as precious oracles.

And yet the mysterious region never seemed to come nearer; rather it receded as the adventurers advanced, a yellow will-o'-the-wisp that had led them through tangled forest and pestilential swamp only to mock them in the end. The natives grew fiercer and more threatening; the guides began to murmur at the length of the way--their river homes seemed so far behind them. Savage faces peered out from bush and rock upon the company of wearied, ragged, dispirited men. One soldier went mad, raved of gold and jewels, and jumped into a whirlpool to seek both. Two others--one a Cornish squire who had sold his little all to join the expedition--were stricken by the sun, and dropped dead as they were pulling at the boat ropes. A jaguar pounced upon another man as he stooped to get water from a stream. An Indian arrow found the heart of another. The sun, fatigue, fevers, bruises, and the endless racking of limbs and brains, reduced the spirits and strength of the men. They became gaunt, hollow-eyed, tattered, unshorn, uncombed, unkempt, yet they toiled on, silent--save when they cursed and railed at fate--dogged, fiercely purposeful, resolved to die rather than turn back. Song and jest were rarely heard in any boat; haggard fellows tugged at the oars, or lay dreamily watching the sail as it filled with the welcome breeze. Their patience being sapped by disappointment and privation, they were no longer the kindly "white brother" to the Indians; they estranged their friends and made foes at every halting-place.

One man saw this. Since the attack on the hill village the chief of that place had been dragged along with the expedition by way of punishment. Sullenly he had tugged at his oar, carried his load, or pulled at his rope; he neither forgot anything nor forgave anything. He rarely spoke to the Indians from the delta and the plain, and when he did his words were full of contempt. One night, when the adventurers were lodged on the land in a cleft of the mountains, he disappeared. The natives who slept on either side of him as guard were both stabbed to the heart. The sight still further dulled the spirits of all.

Chapter XXXVII.

COUNCIL FIRES IN TWO PLACES.

The rising sun flashed spears of light on a rocky spur that stretched out from the foot of the mighty Andes. A tall, straight figure stood silhouetted against a background of sun-bathed cliff. Higher above him the great masses of land rolled back, league after league, and stretched upwards foot after foot to the eternal snows and the eternal heavens. Below him a belt of dark forest swept round the foothills of the giant range, and through a gap in the mass of trees a noisy, turbid stream went tumbling down to the sweltering plains and a feeder of the Orinoco.

The man stood motionless as his rocky pedestal, and intently watching something beyond the line of trees. Presently he turned sharply about, came down from the crag, pushed his way through the trees, and stood in a little pool-filled hollow. Almost immediately he was joined by about twoscore men, all armed with spear and bow and arrow, and, like himself, brown-skinned and stalwart. The newcomers bowed themselves to the ground and murmured some words of homage and adulation. The standing savage drew in a deep breath, expanding his broad chest, and his eyes flashed with pride and power.

"Arise, my sons," he said; "the gods that make men and unmake them shall reward you. Ye have been faithful to him whom the gods have set over you. To the brave shall be the spoils; my sons shall lade themselves with all their hearts may desire. Now tell me what you have done."

A tall warrior stood forth. "We have followed our father since the white strangers seized him. We have watched him and them, and waited for this happy moment."

"Aught else?"

"We have spoken with the peoples who dwell in the woods and the hills, and turned their minds against the men from the land of the sun-rising. They will fight them if any man can discover a charm that will protect them from the thunder and lightning that springs from the strangers' hands."

The chieftain laughed. "I will find them a charm," he cried. "I have walked all night," he added suddenly; "I will sleep. Watch ye."

The chieftain slept. One man went to the cliff as sentinel; the rest squatted around the pool, looked to their weapons, and talked in whispers. The sun climbed upwards, the shadows shortened, the water of the pool grew warm, the sentinel ensconced himself in a shaded cleft of the rock that overlooked the valley, and maintained the unwinking watch of the stoic savage.

The chieftain awoke, a giant refreshed. A warrior brought him water in a gourd; another handed him some fruits from a wallet. A call blown on a hollow reed brought the watcher down from his eyrie. Led by the tall warrior who had addressed his chief, the band went off deeper and higher into the hills. They toiled along through a defile all the afternoon, and when the sun was dipping behind the western peaks came into a broad, cup-like valley, that was dotted with the rude stone huts of a mountain tribe. The tall warrior went forward alone, but presently came back and piloted the band through the straggling groups of huts to the spot where the tribal fire was licking up a fresh supply of fuel. A group of warriors seated by the fire gave the newcomers a guttural greeting, and motioned them to seats on the other side of the blazing heap. Silence was maintained until roasted meat, corn cakes, and fermented liquor were handed round to both parties; then all gathered on the windward side, and the palaver commenced.

The visiting chief held forth at great length. He gave a reasonably good summary of the history of the white man along the Orinoco valley from the first advent of the Spaniards. He spoke of their cruelties, their lust for the yellow dust, and their belief in a golden city on the shores of a lake that fed the head waters of the river. He described the attack on his village, and his own subsequent captivity and semi-slavery. He belittled the strength of his captors, and was inclined to scoff at their thunder-and-lightning tubes. He confessed that the flame and roar of these formidable weapons were terrifying at first; but he had witnessed their action at close quarters, and familiarity had bred a sort of contempt. The lightning would not always leap forth when wanted, nor did the thunder always slay. He was inclined to put as much faith in a well-directed arrow. The latter might be discharged unseen; not so the fire-weapons of the white strangers. The fire-god must be brought to their nostrils, and breathe into them before the fire within would answer; and if a man lay on the ground when he saw the fire he was safe from death. Finally, he urged with savage passion that the intruders should be killed or expelled from the land. He spoke of them as wearied and dispirited, sick with fatigue and the sun-fever, and boldly asserted that they were an easy prey. The tall warrior arose after his chief, emphasizing all that his lord had said.

The chiefs of the tribe did not reply at once, but held a brief consultation apart. They were not inclined to accept the white men at their visitor's valuation, nor were they prepared to take up arms against such wonderful beings without very serious cause. From the chief's own showing they had treated him in a brotherly spirit at first. Other native tribes had, apparently, fraternized with the strangers, and had got considerable advantage thereby. As regards the city of gold, the chiefs had never heard of the place themselves, although they had occasional dealings with peoples who dwelt near the head waters of the great river. But the white strangers were wise, and knew things that the gods had not told to other men. Maybe the city really existed. If the white men wanted to get there, why should any man hinder them? And it was all very well for their visitor to pretend that he had no fear of the thunder weapons. Why had all his people fled at the sound of them?

The chieftain tried to explain, and again urged his points with a number of fresh arguments. But the council was against him; they refused to run their heads into unknown and fearful dangers by opposing a wonderful race that showed no disposition to interfere with them. And so the council ended.

From the cliff that guarded the outlet from the small valley into the gorge a keen-eyed native, gazing intently eastwards towards the greater valley, might have made out a point of yellow light about three leagues away in a bee-line. The light was on the bank of the affluent of the Orinoco, and came from the camp fire of the adventurers. There also a council was being held, and the question for decision was the momentous one whether the quest for the golden city should be abandoned as hopeless. According to the Spanish papers and general rumour the expedition should now be in touch with superior, light-coloured races, and a civilization rivalling that of the ancient empires of Assyria or Babylon for wealth and luxury. The way to Manoa should be as plain and well-known as the way to Rome or Venice. Yet all around were frowning mountains and dense forests, the homes of fierce birds and beasts, and the haunts of savage, warlike tribes. A thousand miles nearer the ocean the natives talked glibly and circumstantially enough about the "Gilded One" and his wonderful city. Here, where the gates of his kingdom should be, no man had heard either of king or country. Months of hardship and privation, the facing of death a hundred times in almost as many forms, had brought the intrepid band to--nothing!

On this particular occasion every man was admitted to the council, and the words of the common soldier and sailor were listened to as attentively as the words of any of the gentlemen. An onlooker would have been sorely puzzled to decide from outward appearance which of the battered, travel-worn band was its leader. The fire lighted up a ring of gaunt, brown, bearded faces, and the pairs of eyes that centred on each speaker's face in turn had little of hope or animation in them. The conference began after the evening meal, and extended far into the night. All seemed to realize the hopelessness of pursuing the quest any farther, yet none cared to face the ordeal of turning the boats seaward again. They compromised the matter. A last attempt should be made to acquire guides and information. If the attempt failed, the search would be abandoned.

Chapter XXXVIII.

THE WAY BACK.

Yacamo, out searching for signs of human occupation, came upon the entrance to the upland valley, and espied the Indian town. He went back to the camp and reported. A deputation was sent to wait upon the chief; a body of men met them in the pass, and refused to allow them to proceed a step farther. Then some of the adventurers themselves climbed through the gorge, and were met with a shower of arrows that wounded three of them. Finally, Captain Drake himself, under the guidance of Yacamo, worked his way into the valley, and reconnoitred. He calculated the town at a strength of about fifteen hundred to two thousand warriors. It was not fortified; but no force could get up the gorge if reasonable opposition were offered. His own band could be ambushed in a score of places. He decided it was impossible to attack the place with any chance of success.

Scouting parties were sent farther along the river. In every case they were assailed. The Englishmen themselves were shot at again and again if they ventured out hunting, and at night arrows dropped at intervals into the camp. The adventurers were in a hornets' nest, and the hornets were always stinging. These attacks, which argued the existence of a host of enemies, were all the work of the escaped chieftain and his twoscore of followers. Divided into about half a dozen bands, hiding themselves with perfect native cunning, they were as effective as ten times the number of less active, less revengeful foes might be; and they grew bolder every hour.

Despairing of success--wearied, wounded, harassed, sick--the adventurers resolved to turn back. Since they had entered the hilly country, they had lost seven men; and as the whole country seemed rising to oppose them, it was madness to attempt to force a passage along the rocky, unknown way. With heavy hearts they paddled into the main stream, got into the current, and drifted northwards towards the ocean.

For days there was hardly any attempt at rowing. The strong rush of the chalky waters swept the boats along. Awnings were erected to shut off the terrific heat of the equatorial sun, and the men lay and dozed and rested, their native allies directing the course of the voyage. No foes appeared, days and nights were quiet and uneventful, and the strength and spirits of all began to revive. They had failed in their quest. What of that? The summer was not yet gone. There were Spanish galleons to be attacked. The Johnsons could show where Oxenham had hidden his treasure; and if they had not found Lake Parimé and its city of gold, they had explored much new and wondrously fertile country. The passion for exploration and the gaining of knowledge of new lands was almost as strong in the hearts of the bold fellows as was the thirst for treasure. Third day down the river Dan sang his song again; 'twas,--

"Ho! for the Spanish Main, And ha! for the Spanish gold!"

King Philip's ships were the true and sure gold-mines. All eyes looked and all hearts yearned for the sea. Their thoughts flew to their bonny little ship. Was she safe? How that question agitated every one, and what intense speculation there was as to the way the question would be answered!

If the way back was easier than the journey forward, it was not less dangerous. The heat had increased, insect life had multiplied a myriad-fold, and the pestilential vapours from the swampy lowlands were thicker and deadlier than before; and the men were not fresh from the invigorating sea, but were spent and worn with a thousand hardships. They drooped, sickened, raved in delirium, and in some cases died. Even the cheery Dan succumbed to the poison of the noisome night mists, and whilst the fever was on him his songs and jests were sorely missed. Morgan and some of the others began to sing songs of home, but these the captain stopped because of the depression they induced in some of the men.

At length, after more than a fortnight of drifting with the current, the first parting of the ways at the beginning of the delta was reached. To the Indians this was the threshold of home; to the Englishmen it was but a poor halting-place, from which they must set out to face fresh perils, and maybe meet newer disappointments. The bewildering maze of channels was once more threaded, this time with the varying strengths of the current to indicate the better routes. The dense, overhanging vegetation sheltered the voyagers by day and stifled them by night. Rests at friendly villages were eagerly welcomed, and no bad news awaited the weary band. A few Spanish boats had been seen in some of the channels, but they had asked no questions concerning the Englishmen, and the natives had given no information, fearing that their masters--for so the Dons accounted themselves--would punish them for having assisted their enemies.

It was in the heat of sultry afternoon, the air stirless, the water in the channel warm and rank-smelling. The boats were drifting lazily under the banks, the native steersmen half sleeping at their posts, the white men stretched out, listless, sun-wearied, inert. A canoe shot out across the path of the boats, disappeared along another waterway, stopped, and a Spaniard got out and plunged into the trees on the low island. He watched the flotilla go by. He noticed the attitude of the men.

"St. James!" he cried, "I could do it with a score of resolute soldiers! What a chance! And I must miss it!"

The Englishmen drifted on; the Spaniard followed at a safe distance. He wanted a solution to an important question: Where was the English ship? He had hunted for it, and so had others--for the Golden Boar had been tracked from Trinidad into the delta--but no man had sighted her, and knew not how far she had gone up-stream. It was not suspected that she had remained so near the sea as proved to be the case. The native chief had guarded his secret well.

That night, about an hour after sunset, and with the light of the growing moon to guide them, the adventurers tied up their boats in the pool where the Golden Boar still lay. What a thrill went through each heart as the outline of their ocean home appeared dimly through the veil of white mist! Tears stood in their eyes, and more than one bold fellow had hard work to choke back a sob. The men left behind came running forth to meet them, all alive, all well. Rough, bearded lips pressed against thin, tanned cheeks in brotherly kisses, and the natives thronged round, full of affectionate and admiring welcome. The brave "white brothers" were back, and their simple hearts rejoiced.

The villagers began instant preparations for a great feast. Captain Drake marshalled his men, and went aboard his ship. Standing bareheaded on his deck, the flag of England unfurled above him, he returned thanks to Almighty God for a great deliverance from many perils; and the company responded with a sonorous and devout "Amen!" There was no word of repining, no lamentation over the failure that had attended their quest. The dead were remembered in a few moments of bowed and silent reverence, and, at the command of his captain, Morgan sang the "De Profundis." "Out of the deep," indeed, had they called, and they thanked God in that He heard them.

Then they went to the place of feasting, and ate as hungry voyagers should eat. After that they slept the deep sleep of wearied men who, after many toils and vicissitudes, had reached a haven where they could rest.

Days of bustle followed. The ship was cleaned of the vegetable growths that clung to her sides; masts were refixed, fittings tested and replaced, and ample stores put aboard. The salt breeze had got again into the men's nostrils, and their hearts cried out for the open sea. Affectionate farewell was taken of their kindly hosts; a promise to come back again was given. Then a flotilla of canoes towed the stout ship into the main channel!

Chapter XXXIX.

JOHN OXENHAM'S CREEK.

More than two months after she had quitted the harbour of San Joseph, the Golden Boar dropped anchor in its waters again. She was not expected, and some folks were hoping that she had gone to the bottom of the Atlantic, or was lying rotting in some pestilential mouth of the Orinoco. Yacamo was put ashore, and a brief visit paid to the governor and the chief Ayatlan. The latter was pleased enough to see the Englishmen, and he warned them that mischief was brewing.

"There has been much coming and going of Spaniards and Spanish ships," he said; "and one man has offered great rewards to any that could tell him where you were hidden."

The visit to the governor nearly led to a quarrel. That dignitary was by no means so deferential as on the previous visit; indeed, he was barely civil. Many things had happened during the previous weeks. A ship had arrived from Spain, and she carried an important passenger--to wit, Brother Basil. He was weeks behind the Golden Boar, but he soon made up for lost time. In the first place he was able to prove that Captain John Drake of the Golden Boar was not the redoubtable Captain Francis Drake so dreaded all along the shores of the Spanish Main. This largely accounted for the altered demeanour of the governor. Rightly guessing that the English ship would put into the harbour if she ever returned from the Orinoco, Basil had at first tried to prepare a warm reception for her. He failed in this, for soldiers were not easy to obtain, the governor was not anxious for a fight, and the very name "Drake" still inspired terror whether it was prefixed by Francis or John. As a second resource he had sent boats into the delta in the hope of locating the ship or her company, and stirring up the natives against the Englishmen. His messengers searched the wrong mouths and channels, and it was only at the last that one of them happed upon the foe; and he was still on the mainland and had sent no tidings.

But the Jesuit, being cognizant of all the plans of the adventurers, and knowing that the Johnsons would lead the way to the scene of Oxenham's defeat and death, prepared yet a third scheme, and, deeming this the surer one, was giving it his personal supervision. He calculated correctly.

When Captain Drake and his retinue were leaving the castle, a native youth who waited upon the soldiers slipped a packet into the hands of the last man, with a whispered injunction to secrecy. The soldier handed the papers to the captain as soon as he was aboard again. A few minutes later Nick and Ned Johnson were sent for into the cabin. The first question caused each one to prick up his single ear pretty sharply.

"Were you the only ones who escaped death when Captain Oxenham was slain?"

"No, some boys were spared."

"Have they ever reached England?"

"As far as we know, no. The priests told us that some of them abjured their faith and had received pardon."

Captain Drake passed some papers across the table. "Look at this drawing."

The brothers did so, and looked at one another pretty shrewdly also.

"What do you make out of it?"

"'Tis a guide to the buried spoil."

The skipper read a rough, explanatory scrawl from the back of the paper. It purported to have been written by one of the lads who had been in San Joseph on a Spanish ship since the departure of the Golden Boar. He explained that he wished his countrymen to know that the treasure had never been found by the Dons, and added that he had bribed the native to give the paper to them if they came back. He would not affix his name, because he was ashamed of his weakness in renouncing his faith and nationality.

The tale was plausible enough and cunningly set forth. Less credulous men than the eager adventurers would have been deceived by it. The English was rough, homely, ill-spelt, and unscholarly, and might well have been written by one of the lads. One thing was certain--it could not have been written by a Spaniard. It was written, indeed, by the renegade Basil.

Needless to say the bait was swallowed. The Golden Boar made a hurried departure from San Joseph, and went westwards along the coast towards the Isthmus of Panama. Basil had gone thither in a Spanish galleon some twelve days before, and was already ashore awaiting them, and daily expecting a strong body of troops from Panama itself. The adventurers, hopes renewed, were putting on all sail to enter a cunningly laid trap.

Apparently fortune was going to favour them at last. Less than a day's sail from Trinidad they sighted a Spanish ship. They had vowed war against everything Spanish, and were resolved not to go home with an empty hold. The helm was put about, and they bore down on their prey. The vessel was not a large one, but it was well manned. To the order to strike his flag, the captain replied with a well-directed shot. The vessels closed. A sharp fight ensued, and the adventurers won. The prize was a good one, and the bold band, deeming their enterprise a high and honourable one, loudly thanked God for His goodness. Then they sailed on, eager for fresh conquests.

Even the least hopeful man cast away his doubts and fears. Hitherto they had searched for what no man had found; now they were going for a treasure whose position was definitely set forth, and, moreover, they were on the beaten track where so many of their daring fellow-countrymen had found fortune. Spanish ships they must meet; and when they met them, well, there was but one thing to do--they must capture them. To their reawakened spirits the matter was the plainest of plain sailing. And the glorious sea, too, had washed the fever from them; they were grown strong and hearty once more. The singers sang, the fiddlers played, and Master Jeffreys, Nick and Ned Johnson told their tales afresh. The generous fellows remembered the brave lives that had been sacrificed to gain the treasure they were going to carry off so easily. As far as the memory of the survivors would allow, a list of Oxenham's crew was drawn up; their homes, where known, were placed against their names, and it was resolved that half of what they recovered should go to the relatives of the dead men. Not one man murmured against the decision; it seemed to them the right and proper thing to do: there were no craven or selfish hearts aboard the Golden Boar.

And so the eager days sped on. No more possible prizes were sighted, and the time came when keen eyes no longer looked seawards at all. The ship was hugging the shore, and Nick Johnson or his brother spent hours at the masthead searching for a familiar landmark. More than once was the anchor dropped, and a boat sent up a promising creek in the hope that it would prove the long-sought one. Failure after failure was reported, but the search only grew the keener. The adventurers were determined to beat every mile of the coast if necessary. At length came the joyous forenoon when Nick gave a frantic hurrah from his lofty perch. Ho had sighted the bare bluff, the wooded background, and the narrow, winding inlet. His brother was quickly beside him, and almost immediately shouted his reassuring opinion to the expectant company. The goal was reached at last!

There was no need to send an exploring boat this time. Nick stayed where he was, and Ned took the helm. A gentle breeze took the Golden Boar into the sheltered anchorage. The trees encircling the little inland bay shut her in just as the sun went down behind them. And the gallant fellows--strange mixture of pirate and patriot--piously and whole-heartedly bared their heads and thanked God for His bounteous mercies!

Chapter XL.

A HAVEN OF PEACE.

The night passed; a night of happy contentment. In picturesque groups on the deck the company slept, their eyes covered from the light of the tropical night. The sentry tramped the deck, listened to the cries from the forest and the salty pool, watched the fireflies as they darted to and fro, and called out the hours and the state of the night whenever the ship's bell sent its musical note echoing from bank to bank of the creek, and rousing the denizens of the forest around. A bird sang in the grove, tuning its lay to reproduce the notes of every songster that had warbled during the daytime. The scents from the masses of flowers, that clustered the banks and wound their tendrils round the giant trees, floated fragrantly on the night air. There was peace in the heavens above and the downward glances of the quiet-eyed stars; there was peace in forest and pool, and sweet sounds and fragrant odours; the ship rocked gently on the flowing tide in a haven that might have been a harbour on the shores of a paradise. And the sleeping men dreamed pleasant dreams, for the scents of the flowers came insensibly into their nostrils, and the song of the bird beat rhythmically on their resting brains. Here, a sailor laughed softly and musically in his sleep; there, a gallant young gentleman murmured a beloved name, as the face of the one beloved passed by in a sweet vision of the night. In his sleep many a one was already at the home where he would be; his hard-won treasures glittered on the familiar table, and he gave this to one and that to another, hung a chain on a fair young neck or pressed a ring on a dainty finger. Johnnie Morgan stood by the river, exactly as he had stood on that bright March morning when Dolly came up and begged for a reconciliation. She came again; the gulls flew over the sands, and the sun shone warmly. Ah! how long it was since that March morning.

The feathered singer in the tree ceased his singing, and hid his head under his wing as his bright-plumaged fellows had done. The stars paled; nature stirred in her sleep; the sailor on the deck felt the tremor that quivered through the animate world, and rubbed his eyes more vigorously. A breeze moved through the trees; the ripple of the water was more distinct; there was a splash--another--another. A frog croaked sleepily to his fellows, and got no answer for a while. A yellow band stretched across the eastern horizon; it tinged the heaving waters, it flecked the trees with gold. The whole forest rustled and twittered. A bird flew down to the water. A parrot screamed noisily; a sleeper started up from his hard couch. The sentinel cried the hour, and announced a fine morning. The world heard him and woke up.

The day was to be a day of great things. Overnight nothing had been done, and no man had gone ashore. The decks were cleaned, prayers said, breakfast eaten, and the rough plan of Oxenham's hiding-place nailed down on the compass-box, where all could see it. Then Captain Drake and the gentlemen of the company went ashore with Nick and Ned Johnson. Hearts beat excitedly in the ship's boat, and hearts throbbed in unison amongst those who waited on the deck. The party landed. They clambered up the bank and pushed aside the tangled undergrowth, some of the men using their swords in order to make the quicker way. Some one kicks against a mass of green creeper; his boot strikes something wooden and hollow; he has not lighted upon an empty bush. Quickly he tears aside the clinging mass; a beautifully striped snake wriggles out, hissing angrily. The man scarcely heeds the dangerous thing. He shouts aloud; the others come up. What has he found? The ruins of one of Oxenham's boats. Nick recognizes it. "I worked to help build it," he says softly. "The Dons came upon us before we could finish." The rough fellow uncovered his head.

The adventurers gazed with a strange interest upon the relic of a former bold adventure. They turned it over almost reverently. "Brave John Oxenham!" murmured Captain Drake.

But sentimental recollections were soon swept away. The discovery of the half-finished boat put aside all doubts as to the identity of their anchorage with that of Oxenham's. "How far off was the treasure buried?" was the next eager question.

"Just out of the tide-way in the heart of a cluster of mangroves; we notched the biggest tree," answered Nick. He looked around. "Yonder's the spot," he cried. All followed him.

The quick-growing vegetation had enwreathed the trees with gay creepers, but Nick soon found the mark of the axe on the bark. Undergrowths choked up the gaps between the trunks of the trees, but a couple of axes cleared a path. The men thronged into the inner space. The ground was hard and overgrown, and certainly had not been touched for a long time. Hopes rose higher than ever. Apparently the ground had never been disturbed since Oxenham's visit. Captain Drake decided to get to work at once. He rowed back to the ship, ordered the pickaxes and shovels to be brought up from below, and chose out a first gang of sailors and soldiers to go ashore and commence digging. A couple of hours ought to suffice for the securing of the treasure.

The men tumbled into the boat, eager enough to begin. They rowed ashore, stripped themselves to the waist, and set to work with a will, cheering one another on with boisterous jests. Captain Drake remained aboard. Sir John Trelawny and some of the adventurers superintended the digging. Timothy Jeffreys and Johnnie Morgan wandered off along the stream, hoping to light upon some game for the replenishing of the larder. Nick Johnson pointed out a spring, and others of the company busied themselves filling the barrels with fresh water. All were animated, and occupied in some useful way or other.

Chapter XLI.

THE TRAP.

A cheery proverb declares there is no cloud so black that it hath not a silver lining. Conversely we may say that there is no sky so blue that no cloud is gathering in it. The sky over the heads of Captain Drake and his men glowed like a firelit, flawless sapphire; yet behind, where the giant trees shut out the view of the heavens, a cloud was gathering, charged with the very mirk of death.

For days and nights before the Golden Boar had come abreast of the mouth of the creek, the summit of the bluff had not been without a keen-eyed sentinel. Squatted on his haunches, or lying prone on the grass, a patient Indian had scanned sea and horizon for a sign of a sail. His watch was duly rewarded. He heard the shout of the lookout man; saw the ship put about for the entrance near which he lay; then he slipped into the trees behind him, and ran down the declivity and through the forest like a creature born to a life in the tree-packed solitudes. He passed round the bay, and ran for another couple of miles along the creek. Then, in a natural clearing, he came upon a tent around which were gathered about fifty warriors of his own tribe. At the entrance to the tent he bowed himself down to the earth, and lay there until a voice bade him arise.

"The ship of the white men, O my father!"

"Where?"

"They come into the harbourage."

"Get thy canoe." Basil came forth, and was soon speeding down to the bay. He got out on the side opposite to the cluster of mangroves, climbed a tree, and watched the Golden Boar as it beat into the narrow entrance from the sea. The sun shone on the gilded monster that stood "rampant" under the bows and lit up the tall figure of Morgan, who stood watching the muddy waters as they ran lapping along the sides of the ship. Basil recognized all, and smiled in triumph. He went back to his tent and dispatched swift messengers along the track across the isthmus; the Spanish troops were lagging somewhere on the road, and must needs be hurried.

All that night, sleepless, noiseless Indians lay near the ship and heard every call of the watch. With the coming of the dawn they slipped farther back, but maintained a close espionage. Basil's messenger returned. The troops were bivouacked not far away. They would start with the earliest light, and might be expected within two hours of sunrising. The natives were sent down to the fringe of the bay to keep unseen watch over every movement of the Englishmen. Basil waited for the white troops. His plans were carefully made, and he hoped to capture the ship and every soul of her company.

Morgan and Jeffreys pushed their way through the trees, seeking some open glade where deer might be feeding. Each carried bow and arrows, so that the quarry might be obtained without raising any alarm that might arouse near-dwelling natives or any chance party of Spaniards. The laughter of their comrades died away behind them little by little, and was presently lost altogether. Once or twice the undergrowth rustled, and both paused, hoping to sight some eatable prey; but they saw nothing, and wandered farther and farther on.

They had gone for nearly a mile, when suddenly an Indian stood in their path. The fellow paused for an instant, then turned and fled as though in affright. Both were about to cry out to reassure him, when they were stealthily assailed from behind. A native cloth or blanket was thrown over the head of each; brown arms closed round and pinioned their limbs. They were thrown to the ground, and a heavy blow on the head rendered them unconscious. They had no chance to cry out, and were trapped with scarcely a struggle. When they recovered their senses they were in a canoe going rapidly up-stream; their heads were still muffled, and their limbs bound with tight thongs.

Between the trees the digging went on merrily enough. About three feet down a skull was found; then another; then various human bones. These gruesome discoveries checked the singing and laughter, and for a while the men worked in silence. But there was nothing to dull the spirits of the water-carriers, and they romped and skylarked like a party of schoolboys. Those on board ship envied their companions who were ashore, and the relief digging party leant over the bulwarks, eager to take their turn amongst the mangroves.

Meanwhile a net of fire and steel was being drawn around the workers.

The net was set; every mesh was tested, and yet the fowler hesitated to draw it in: all the birds were not gathered in the baited area. The water-carriers were too far from the diggers, and the ship rode clear of the shore. The Indian allies hid, waiting with inexhaustible patience. The Spanish troops were restless and ill-controlled. They saw two small parties of Englishmen busily engaged, and without suspicion of danger. It was so easy to form two bands, surround and capture all. Barely a dozen men remained aboard the ship; surely they could seize the vessel at their leisure! The Spanish commander did not possess Basil's gift of caution. He determined to attack, and launched a mixed force against the water-carriers and seized every one. Another band dashed for the mangroves; but warning had been given. Sir John and his gentlemen whipped out their swords, and the workers seized pick-axe and shovel. Captain Drake saw the movement in the trees, shouted an alarm, and at once turned his guns on the rustling patch. A couple of terrific charges followed; trees splintered and crashed, and the Indian allies fled in terror, freeing some of the water-carriers, who plunged at once into the bay and swam to the ship. The group of mangroves was a natural fortress, and the Dons failed to get in at the first rush. The flight of the Indians threw them into a momentary disorder; and Captain Drake, instant in appreciating an opportunity, turned a gun a little wide of the cluster, and sent a ball smashing into the rallying place of the foe. Covered by the armed gentlemen, the workers retreated to their boat; arrows and a few musket balls flew after them, but the ship's guns again spoke out, and no Don dared show himself. The boat was reached at the cost of a few wounds. At the ship's side the men received arms, and the soldiers aboard leaped down to take the place of the wounded. The boat went ashore once more, and the whole of its company made for the spring, hoping to rescue the men there. The enemy opposed their way, but they drove them before them, and the guns from the vessel swept and cleared the surrounding patches of woodland. The spring was reached; the Dons had fled; and the marks of the short struggle were all the rescue party discovered. They followed the trail for a while, but the foe had got the start and the help of their native guides. The men reluctantly returned to the shore of the bay, fortunately picking up a couple of wounded sailors on their way. The undergrowth around was diligently searched, but it yielded nothing alive.

The ship's roll was called, and the losses counted. No one had seen anything of Jeffreys and Morgan since the first landing; they had gone a-hunting, and their fate could hardly be doubted. The digging party had escaped death and capture, and no man was seriously wounded. Of the water party, the two Johnsons, who had acted as leaders, were wounded and prisoners; three others were captives with them; the rest had escaped. There were no further attempts at digging that day. This was, perhaps, just as well, for the earth contained no treasure. The Dons had seized that long before.

Chapter XLII.

CAPTIVES.

The wonderful name of Drake saved the expedition from irretrievable disaster. "For England, boys!" Sir John had shouted as he laid about him in the mangrove trees. "For Drake and Devon!" shouted a Plymouth tar, and his comrades had hurrahed at his words. "Ay, remember the skipper's name!" Sir John had replied; "defeat and Drake don't go together!" These shouted words, and the promptness of the round shot from the ship, had really equal effects in scattering the foe. The Spanish commander, when he rallied his men farther back at the springs, asked Nick Johnson who his captain was.

"Drake of Plymouth!" cried Nick; "and take heed to it, ye dirty Papist. Ye'll regret this business before sunset!"

And the soldiers were of their foeman's opinion. Their leader deemed discretion the better part of valour. He had lost some men; his allies had fled; five prisoners were in his hands. So far he could claim a victory, and he was resolved not to lose one leaf from his scanty laurels. "Drake" was an incarnation of the devil; every Don in America knew that; it was useless fighting the redoubtable sailor, for no man could defeat or kill him. The Spanish captain decided on a movement to the rear. In vain Basil stormed and raved, and vowed that the dreaded Drake was not within a thousand leagues of the isthmus. The soldiers remembered that the speaker was a renegade Englishman, and refused to believe him.

Basil left them to go on to Panama, whilst he returned to the Indian camp and the two prisoners whose clever capture he had superintended. The Indians had gone, and Morgan and Jeffreys were left gagged and bound. The Jesuit was furious. His first impulse was to kill his captives and leave their bodies to be found by their companions, who would assuredly make some search for them. But a moment's reflection made him abandon that plan. Had he desired only their death, it would have been easier for the Indians to shoot them than to capture them. One of the two, Morgan, was an old foe; he had done much to thwart the scheme for firing the Forest of Dean, a scheme which would have brought Basil nothing less than a bishopric had it succeeded. He was one of those who had slain Father Jerome, and must expiate his many offences. The angry man had little objection to letting out Master Timothy's life at a blow, but Morgan must have no such easy ending. So he left the two, half-stifled in their blankets, and went into the woods and along the creek, calling in the hope of attracting some stray Indians. After a while, the chief and about a dozen others straggled back.

The tent, wherein Basil had kept up state in order to overawe the simple natives, was packed away into a canoe. The prisoners were put into another, and the company paddled away towards the interior, following by water the course the Spaniards had taken by land.

The two parties met that evening at a native village, and a fierce quarrel broke out betwixt Basil and the Spanish commandant. The civilian accused the soldier of cowardice and indifference that amounted to treachery, and fiercely maintained that a little more wisdom and courage on the part of the troops would have sufficed for the capture of the whole expedition. The captain retorted that he had done his duty with due zeal and discretion, and threatened Basil with a share of the bonds that bound the limbs of his fellow Englishmen. He took Basil's two prisoners and added them to his own captures, asserting that he did so in order to ensure their safe keeping. By easy stages the troops moved west by north along the rivers and over the mountains to Panama, where the Englishmen were formally imprisoned as pirates and wicked enemies of his Majesty King Philip. Basil was soon busily at work in an endeavour to get them accused of heresy rather than piracy, and so put them into the hands of the Inquisition; for the ecclesiastics punished with infinitely greater cruelties than did the King's officers.

A long and anxious council was held that afternoon aboard the Golden Boar. For the time, the treasure-hunt was forgotten. Seven members of the company, two of them gentlemen partners in the expedition, were in the hands of the Spaniards. What could be done for their release? From the evidence of those of the watering-party that had escaped, it was plain that the band that had attacked them was as numerous as that which attacked the gold-seekers. The total forces, Spanish and Indian, were considerably over a thousand. Now, if the ship was to be at all adequately guarded and manned, Captain Drake could not spare more than a score of men as a land force. Obviously, this was totally inadequate if the foe stood his ground; so weak a band might be shot down one by one in the forest. Yet no man would leave the coast without making some real effort to aid his captured comrades. The brave fellows could readily put themselves in thought into the places of the unfortunate seven, and they shuddered as they contemplated their possible fate. One man, Paignton Rob, knew Oxenham's route across the isthmus, and he volunteered at once to lead any pursuing party. Should the Johnsons escape, they would almost certainly take this route back. Pursuit was decided upon, and Captain Drake resolved to lead it himself. The whole of the gentlemen adventurers volunteered to accompany him, and Dan Pengelly and Paignton Rob completed the available force. It was small enough to be called a "forlorn hope;" it was brave enough to do desperate deeds if occasion offered.

Since the retreat of the foe no sounds had been heard from the shore. This did not prove that no enemies were lurking in the thickets, for silence had prevailed until the moment of the double attack. Rob offered to go scouting, but his services as guide were too precious for him to run the risk; and Sir John Trelawny, like the valiant knight he was, went instead. A boat was rowed down into the shelter of the bluff, and he slipped ashore. Scaling the rock, he peered about on all sides, saw nothing suspicious, and advanced into the thick woods. There were plenty signs of the fray, but no sight of a foe. He wound round one side of the curve of the bay, and startled nothing but the birds and a few reptiles. He came down to the water, hailed the ship, and was taken aboard. The captain resolved to start up the creek at nightfall and follow its course into the river.

This was done. Signs of Basil's camp were discovered, and his bivouac searched. Morgan's helmet was found; the pursuers were on the track. A hunt in the near woods revealed nothing of note. Re-embarking they reached an Indian village by midnight, and learned that the foe was encamped at a larger place up the stream. Here was a chance of a night assault. But neither bribes nor threats could prevail with any native to accept the position as guide. The chief finally gave directions which were either wilfully incorrect or misunderstood. The Englishmen, on coming to a parting of the waters, took the wrong course, and found themselves by daylight right in the hills and twenty miles from the place where the captives lay.

They came back and took the other channel, arriving at the halting-place about noon, to find the foe gone and themselves too weary to follow for some hours. Rob and the captain interviewed the chief, but the latter was too fearful of the Spaniards to offer any assistance. The English force in his eyes was too weak to gain any victory, and he would not be on the losing side.

The adventurers pushed forward again in the evening, abandoned their boats, and took to the hills in the hope of cutting off the Spanish retreat. They lost their bearings, and for a while were lost themselves. The pursuit became hopeless, and was reluctantly abandoned.

The party returned to the ship. Nothing further was possible. With a force ten times as great as the one he really commanded, Captain Drake might have attempted a march on Panama itself, for the spirit of the great admiral was strong in him.

Digging was resumed, and the labour was rewarded by the mocking discovery of a heap of bones. It was plain to every one that the company had been led into a cunningly prepared trap. In the heat of their anger some were for sailing back to Trinidad and sacking San Joseph. The skipper would hear of no such mad enterprise. He set sail for the open sea, his heart full of two desires. He wanted to fall in with some other English ships, and essay an attack on Panama. Failing this, he hoped for the chance of meeting plenty of King Philip's galleons. Large or small, he vowed to assail them and take a terrible requital for his own misfortunes.

His latter hope was realized. He fell in with two ships in his passage through the Indies, and attacked and pillaged both. Although shorn of nearly half his strength by the time he reached the open Atlantic, yet he made for the Azores and captured yet a third galleon, and fell in with a fourth sailing for Panama itself. He boarded this, and gave the captain a letter for the authorities of the isthmian port. In this he declared his intention of paying the place a speedy visit with such a force that he would level the town with the ground if a hair on the head of any captive had been injured. 'Twas a proud, characteristic boast, but it was never carried into effect.

Plymouth was duly reached. The Golden Boar brought some goodly treasure to port, many stories of wonderful lands, and a wealth of bad news. There was mourning in Plymouth. And Paignton Rob--weeks after--sat moist-eyed in a cottage at Newnham listening to a maiden's sobs.

Chapter XLIII.

IN PANAMA.

Panama sweltered in a blaze of summer sunshine. The place reeked with heat like a furnace. The smooth sea reflected the glare like a mirror; the white houses dazzled the eyes, and sent fiery darts of pain through them to the brain. The harbour showed no sign of life, the sentinel at the castle nodded at his post, and his excellency the governor lay stretched on a couch at an open window, whilst two slaves fanned him with palm leaves. The streets were empty even of natives. These, emulating their white masters, had crawled into the shade of wall or tree, and curled up in slumber.

The jail was a long, low building in the southern angle of the castle courtyard. Its walls were of mud baked in the tropical sun, and its roof was of palm-thatch. The windows were mere slits in the thick, hard walls, and gave little light or air. The doors were stout, and tightly barred. Of all the hot corners in the Pacific inferno, the jail corner was the hottest. The place was full; either the long spell of heat or the caprices of the sweltered governor had stirred up an unruly spirit. Several soldiers had mutinied; the natives had been troublesome and restive; a party of sailors had run amuck--doubtless affected by the torrid heat--and so the prison population was at high-water mark. The commandant had much ado to find room for the seven Englishmen. On behalf of the Inquisitors, Basil had offered to relieve him of their company, but the governor had said "No" to the proposal. The seven were confined in one room of fair size, and, except for the heat, were no more comfortless than they would have been in the average English jail. But the heat was fearful! The wretched men sat and stewed in it. Water was not too plentiful in the city, and the native water-carriers had grown lazy; thirst racked the prisoners one and all. They had been shut in for the better part of two weeks, and wondered why they had not been brought to trial. They had expected a short shrift and a speedy execution. Usually these expectations would have been realized, but the governor would not be bothered with any extra work whilst the heat spell lasted, and he had been warned that the "Holy Office" would claim the Englishmen as heretics and blasphemers. This would mean a lengthy wrangle between the military and ecclesiastical authorities, and his sun-dried excellency was not in the mood or condition to preside over heated arguments. The fellows were safe, he said, and would have time to think over their sins, political and religious. Let them alone for a while.

It was the turn of Nick Johnson and Johnnie Morgan to be at the window. A rough bench was drawn up near the opening, and the two knelt thereon and let the hot air--cool compared with the general atmosphere of the prison--blow softly on their faces. They were not allowed to put their heads too near the blessed inlet, for that would shut out the light from their comrades. Their joint occupation of the room had been lengthy enough to give rise to a set of rules for their mutual good and guidance. The law against blocking up the window too closely was a very strict one. From the angle at which he looked out Nick could see the drowsy sentinel.

"'Twill be such a day as this that will give us our chance of freedom," he said. "Could we but get out now, we might parade the streets unchallenged for an hour. The Dons are in no hurry either to hang or burn us, and we cannot wait their convenience. If the Indian will only bring us the arrowhead that he promised, we will try our legs about noon tomorrow. We ought to take a block out of this wall in twenty-four hours."

Johnnie nodded; his mouth was too parched for speaking. Nick's voice was very like a raven's croak, and he licked his dry lips and relapsed into silence. Their spell at the window came to an end. They stepped down, and went to a corner. Two sailors took their places.

The stifling afternoon passed, and left the captives limp, panting, and exhausted. As the shadows lengthened, the stir of life arose anew in the castle. Towards evening the jailer visited his charges, and an Indian came with him bearing a pitcher of water and some cakes of native corn. The soldier stood whilst the man deposited his burden; then both turned and went out without speaking a word. The cakes were passed round, and each man quickly broke his open. Nothing was secreted in them, and eager looks were changed to those of disappointment. Morgan took up the pitcher, drank, and passed to Jeffreys, who handed it to Nick; and so it went round, each drinking a little, curbing his desires in order that some of the precious liquid might remain for the wakeful watches of the night. Darkness came, but it brought little or no rest. Swarms of mosquitoes came in and bit their hapless victims mercilessly as they tossed and turned on the bare earthen floor. The nights of captivity were worse than the days. At intervals the pitcher went round; but the water had got lukewarm, and refreshed them little enough.

Day broke, and the pitcher circulated for a last time. The tilting of the vessel brought a happy discovery: the Indian had been true to his promise. A small spearhead was wedged across the bottom.

Here was hope, and also employment during the dreary hours. Nick seized the welcome implement with a cry of joy, and he could not be persuaded to refrain from using it at once. He measured Morgan's shoulders on the wall.

"This," said he, "must be the width of the hole. Let me trace it."

In the corner, from the floor upwards, he marked off a rectangular space.

"We shall have to loosen a block of wall this size, push it out at the right moment, crawl through, put it back again to avert suspicion, and then make the best of our way into the forest. That was how we escaped from Vera Cruz; the trick should serve us a second time."

"Three hide better than seven," suggested Jeffreys.

"And seven can fight better than three," added the sailor. "We shall do no good in the forest without weapons. The game will not walk to our fire to be cooked. Either Dons or Indians must furnish us. We lie here, sheep in a pen, awaiting the butcher. If I am to die in Panama, let it be no sheep's death."

Each heart echoed these sentiments, and all resolved to risk the desperate chances for life and liberty. Operations were commenced at once. It was no great undertaking to remove, with proper tools, a block of baked clay, some three feet or so by two feet, from a typical Panama wall. The prison wall was about three feet thick, and almost as hard as an English brick. The spearhead was of the small sort, and really little better than a large arrowhead; fortunately it was almost new, and well sharpened. Nick began working at the floor level, and the first part of the process was to work the three feet odd along the base of the wall and back into it until only a thin shell was left on the outer side. The work could only progress slowly, for there must be little sound of scraping or ringing of iron on the stone-like clay, and all dust from the working must be dispersed about the floor. Two watched at the window all the time. Interruptions were many and sometimes lengthy, and after three hours of broken labour the workers had only got some two inches back into the wall along the floor line. But noon and the death-like stillness of "siesta" gave them a better opportunity. A shaft that had been procured some days previously was fished out from its hiding-place, and fitted to the spearhead. Working in short shifts, by the space of an hour the floor line was worked through so that daylight was visible in one or two places, and the upright line in the angle of the wall was worked full depth back to a height of half a foot. In the late afternoon, after the visit of the jailer, a groove sufficiently deep to guide them in the darkness was made all round. The work was to be finished when castle and town sank to silence after nightfall.

The oppressive heat of the past weeks was broken just after sunset by a terrific thunderstorm, and the fury of the elemental outburst covered all noises and allowed the toilers to work without any precaution. But, alas! their very haste was their undoing. The head, blunted and worn, broke off short in the depth of the wall. Attempts to extricate it in the darkness only wedged it in more tightly. With a groan of despair, the wearied men gave up their task, and sought slumber.

The first gleams of stormy daylight found some of them awake, feverishly at work stuffing the tell-tale grooves with dust moistened by the last drains of the water in their pitcher. As yet the great block was quite immovable, and another implement must be obtained to complete the task. The flood waters from the courtyard had trickled in through the apertures made near the floor, and under-garments were taken off, and the betraying waters swabbed up. Some of the little band huddled in the corner when the jailer came in with breakfast, and he went out, having seen and suspected nothing. The Indian looked inquiringly at the Englishmen, but they were unable to give him any hint of their wants.

The day passed. The sky cleared; then the clouds gathered again, and there was another deluge. Panama was flooded out. The sun went down behind a black veil, but towards midnight the stars came out, and a delightfully cool breeze swept in at the window to soothe the fevered bodies within prison walls. What a chance of escape they had missed during the noisy hours of the storm, when not a soul was abroad in the place! Knowing the opportunity was there, they tried desperately to force the door. But the feat was far beyond all the strength at their command.

And the morning, delicious in its cool and fragrant freshness, brought despair. The governor, who like the trees had drooped in the heat, revived with the rain, and set about the duties of his position with some vigour. The Englishmen were informed that when "siesta" was over they would be brought into the castle hall for trial and judgment. The flood had washed away their chances of escape. They solemnly and in silence shook hands as men saying a long farewell.

Chapter XLIV.

THE TRIAL.

No bonds had been placed upon the limbs of the Englishmen since the day when the Spanish captain had taken them out of the hands of Basil. They walked unfettered to the judgment hall, and stood without shackles before their judges. The court was crowded; it was not every day that a band of terrible fire-eating Englishmen was on view in Panama. Rumour spoke of them as friends and companions of Drake, and Spaniards and Indians alike were eager to gaze upon the prisoners. The governor was chief judge; beside him, on the one hand sat the deputy-governor, and on the other was placed the chief ecclesiastical dignitary of the colony. Basil stood by the cleric's side. Johnnie caught sight of him, and stared him almost out of countenance. He had not seen him on the day of his capture in the forest, but had caught glimpses of him on the march. Recollections struggled in his mind. Where had he seen the fellow before? Nick Johnson, too, felt that he had seen or heard of a dark-eyed, sallow-faced fellow who resembled the man in court.

The proceedings opened, and the civil authorities formally charged the prisoners with piracy and invasion of the territory of King Philip of Spain. The bishop instantly opposed, and claimed to have the charge amended to one of heresy and murderous opposition to the Church. The governor asked for evidence in support of his claim. A nod to Basil, and the latter began a speech for the prosecution. Master Jeffreys stopped him by an appeal to the governor.

"May it please your excellency," he said, "my comrades have no knowledge of Spanish, and I have but little. I am persuaded that your excellency, as a soldier and a gentleman of honour, is anxious to give us a fair trial. There is peace between our Queen and King Philip; there should at least be justice and fair-dealing betwixt you and us. Mine ears tell me that yonder man is more accustomed to speak my tongue than yours; his Spanish hath the same rough English smack about it as hath mine own. I pray you that he may say to us in English what he saith to you in the language of Spain."

Basil reddened and turned to his superior; but the governor, though indolent and capricious, was a man of some honour and chivalry. He told the accuser to speak alternately in the language of the court and that of the prisoners.

Very few sentences in English were necessary to enlighten Johnnie as to Basil's identity. He could now see the spiteful face that confronted him on a memorable morning in the shades of Dean Forest. He listened intently. The harangue was long and tedious, and endeavoured to prove that the tallest prisoner was a contumacious heretic, who had fought against the Holy Church, frustrated her lawful efforts at the conversion of England, and had slain two noble and saintly missionaries and servants of King Philip--to wit, a certain Jesuit father, Jerome, and a monk named John. The prisoner had also repeatedly attempted the life of the speaker. As for the others, one at least had attempted the speaker's life in Plymouth, well knowing who and what he was; and all the others were aiders and abettors.

Johnnie heard, and asked if he had the right of reply.

"Most certainly," said the governor. "This is a court of law, and it is our boast and pride that we give justice without fear or favour."

Whereupon Morgan, with Jeffreys as interpreter, gave his version of the incidents in the forest. A plot, to which no king could have been a party, was set afoot by his accuser and others to destroy a forest over which he (Morgan) was a duly appointed guardian. He fought the conspirators by way of simple duty to his trust. Could he do less and hold up his head amongst honourable men? His accuser and his confederates had basely attempted to assassinate two noble Englishmen--to wit, Admiral Drake and Sir Walter Raleigh, a close friend and counsellor of England's Queen. He asked whether Spain fought with the weapons of assassins, and whether King Philip, as a Christian and friendly monarch, could be a party to any such dastardly conduct. The governor was a gentleman of honour, and could answer for his sovereign.

The governor promptly denied that "His Most Catholic Majesty" could ever countenance such deeds. Johnnie bowed and thanked him, and resumed his defence. He dealt with the questions of piracy and invasion of Spanish dominions. England and Spain were, he declared, at peace, and no official could deny an Englishman the right to travel peaceably in Spanish dominions, unless a law expressly excluded them. Any Spaniard, so long as he did nothing to harm the Queen or the government, might travel in England, and claim the protection of its laws as a peaceful sojourner in the land. Surely the Spaniards were not going to be outdone in matters of international courtesy. As regards the New World, the Englishman contended that it was open to explorers and colonizers of all Christian nations, and Spain could not claim it as her own unless she also occupied it.

The governor heard Morgan patiently, and hearkened to Master Jeffreys whilst he expounded his ideas of the rights of England in the New World. Then his excellency summed up the case. He ruled that the two gentlemen adventurers were not prisoners of the Holy Office, but of his Majesty. The charges against them were those of piracy and invasion. They had certainly been captured on Spanish soil in the act of appropriating--or endeavouring to appropriate--treasures that belonged to Spain. Moreover, they were companions of a Captain Drake, who, with his brother, the admiral, had been guilty of repeated and gross piracies on the high seas. Their guilt was fully established, and by law they ought to be taken down to the harbour and hanged in chains, as a warning to others. Mercy, however, should be shown them; their lives would be spared, but they must serve ten years in the galleys. A hint was given, after a whispered consultation with the bishop, that renunciation of their Protestant heresies would bring about a material lightening of their sentences.

The five seamen were next put on trial. Basil promptly claimed the Johnsons as fugitives from the Inquisition. The cropped ears and lost thumbs were convincing evidence against them, and they were handed over to the Church, to be dealt with according to the law ecclesiastical. An attempt to claim the other three sailors failed. The governor would not quit his hold on them. His own galley was sadly undermanned, and he could not let three stout and skilled oarsmen slip through his fingers. He looked longingly upon the two crop-eared fellows, and begrudged the Church the possession of them. But he remembered with a sigh that there must be give and take in this world, and five out of seven was not a bad proportion.

The court broke up. The five galley-slaves were taken back to their cell for that night. Nick and Ned were walked away in charge of the jailers of the Inquisition. Their ultimate fate was to be decided the next day.

Chapter XLV.

FOR FAITH AND COUNTRY!

The trial of the two brothers was a very elaborate and ceremonial business. The Inquisition Court, with the bishop presiding, sat for about three hours. There was reading of papers, citing of ecclesiastical and royal decrees, and a good deal of argument between the bishop, the Chief Inquisitor, and Brother Basil. Through all this wordy process the two sailors stood, or lounged, or chatted quietly together. At first they had listened, hoping to glean a little information; but as Latin predominated over Spanish, and they understood no word of the former and only the New World barbaric mixture of the latter, they soon ceased to pay attention, and lawyers and ecclesiastics droned on as long as it pleased them to do so.

In the last few minutes the interest swung round to the prisoners. Basil ordered them to attend and answer truthfully certain questions the court desired to put to them. The two lean, brown bodies were straightened, and two pairs of keen, clear eyes stared into Basil's shifty orbs.

"Are you sons of the same parents?"

"Yes."

"Names?"

"Nicodemus and Edward."

"Nationality?"

"English, God be thanked!" answered Nick.

"Amen! brother," said Ned.

"Religion?"

The two rough fellows looked at one another. The question was really a puzzler. Living their lives out on the sea, unlettered and unlearned, they had no knowledge of religious formularies.

"We believe in God and Jesus Christ His Son," said Nick. "Is that so, brother?"

"That is so," said Ned; "those are the names that come in the chaplain's prayers."

"Do you acknowledge the authority of his Holiness the Pope of Rome?"

Another look of consultation, and Ned shook his head. Nick answered. "We do not believe in the Pope. We did as boys during Mary's reign."

"Why did you change?"

"Queen and Parliament no longer believe in him, but hate him for an enemy. We believe in our Queen and Parliament. Will that do, brother?"

"Beautifully. Tell the truth and shame the devil. We have drunk confusion to the Pope in many a cup of sack, and in good company too--with Franky Drake and Jack Hawkins, Jacob Whiddon, and a host of bonny sailor-men. No, brother, we do not believe in the Pope, although there are some honest fellows and many rogues who do. We must stand by the words passed to old comrades."

There was a brief consultation on the judges' bench, and the bishop gave it as his opinion that the two men were utterly ignorant on religious questions, and simply believed what they were told to believe. He himself, in pursuance of the duties of his sacred office, would expound the true faith to them, and show them the heresies of their own lightly-held belief. Whereupon his lordship addressed the prisoners for the better part of an hour in very dignified Spanish and scholarly Latin. The two paid earnest attention, for the ecclesiastic's tone was kindly, almost fatherly. They understood little of what he said, and Basil was not allowed to interpret, as the bishop believed that his own voice and words would have greater weight, and it was acknowledged that the Englishmen had a fair knowledge of Spanish.

As the good man sipped a cup of wine and fanned himself after his episcopal exhortation, Basil briefly questioned the prisoners again. The bishop had shown them their errors in matters of faith; were they prepared to recant, and re-enter the fold from which they had ignorantly strayed?

These questions were plain enough, and the brothers looked at one another once more. Both heads shook. Nick spoke out. "We are not able," he said, "to judge between Pope and Parliament, or between one bishop and another. Our faith and our country are one; our home and our Church are one. We are loyal Englishmen, and will stick to Queen, Parliament, and friends because we love them and believe in them and know that they will never betray or desert us. We hold the faith of our friends, and cannot, without dishonour, turn and accept the faith of our foes."

The bishop was angry at this sturdy answer. His vanity was piqued that two rude sailors should be so uninfluenced by his learned discourse. He ordered Basil to tell them what the inevitable consequences of their obstinacy would be.

The two brothers listened calmly enough. "Will you recant now?"

"Is it 'No,' brother Ned?"

"It is 'No!'"

"No!" said Nick; "and God help us both!"

Then sentence was pronounced. It was that the next evening, an hour before sundown, the two should be led to a stake fixed in the market-place of the town and there publicly burnt, in the hope that the destruction of their bodies by fire might save their souls from the everlasting flames of hell. The bishop spoke the sentence, and Basil translated it piece by piece. The toil-worn figures in the prisoners' dock became more fixed and rigid as the dread words fell, one by one. All was said. The brothers faced one another, and there was deathly pallor whitening the tan of their cheeks. They shook hands silently, then kissed; then hand in hand, like two children, they walked away between the guards, and the most curious onlooker never saw even the tremor of an eyelid.

That night earnest priests, zealous enough according to the narrow ideas of the time, place, creed, and race, visited the doomed men and exhorted them to forsake their errors. Always they got the same simple, faithful, patriotic reply. They served their Queen, their country, their captain. What these believed, they believed, and held to be right. Faith with them was a matter of national obligation and faithfulness to their leaders and comrades. To deny the faith was to deny the principles that had ruled their lives. Such treason to country and conscience was impossible. They thanked the priests for their ministrations, and begged after a while to be left alone. A request that they might speak with Morgan or Jeffreys was refused, but a young monk promised to take a message of affectionate farewell. He fulfilled the promise, and the simple, childlike, yet valiant words cheered many a terrible hour in the months that followed.

Nicodemus Johnson, and Edward his brother, died at the stake in Panama at the time and on the spot appointed. A curious and silent crowd watched the agonizing passing away of the two brave, simple-hearted fellows; and, Spaniard and Indian alike, they went away profoundly impressed. A brighter lustre was added to the name "Englishman." It is difficult to say whether the noble fellows were martyrs most to religion or country. So little versed were they in religious practices that they hardly knew a prayer for use in their last hours, and their last thoughts and visions were not of heaven, but of the green fields and blue waters of England.

The stakes were placed side by side, and, as the hands and arms were left free, the brothers could touch one another.

When the fagots were lighted, and the stifling smoke rolled up into their faces. Nick stretched out his hand and sought that of his younger brother. "God bless us, brother, and forgive us whatever we have done amiss!" he cried.

"God bless England and give her victory over her enemies," replied Ned.

And hand in hand--the loving, tortured grip heartening them to endure the awful agony--the brothers died.

"Dulce et decorum est pro patriâ--et fide--mori!"

Chapter XLVI.

THE GALLEY SLAVES.

The great heats were past; the climate along the Panama littoral was bearable, and the governor decided to pay official visits to the stations along the coast. The bishop thought the occasion favourable for a tour of pastoral inspection, and decided to go with his excellency. Other functionaries, with other duties to perform, hinted to the governor's secretary or the bishop's chaplain that the official progress would be more imposing if they were included. Thus it came to pass that a notable company embarked on the Santa Maria on a certain cool October day.

Besides those that went aboard the galley willingly, hoping for pleasure and profit, there were about one hundred and fifty hapless wretches who were dragged down to the water-side in chains, and then chained to the place they must occupy during the whole of the voyage. Amongst these were Morgan, Jeffreys, and the three sailors from the Golden Boar.

The Santa Maria was about one hundred and thirty feet long and fifteen feet beam, a galley of a somewhat broad and clumsy make. In the fore-part was a small raised deck, with three guns, and rough hatches underneath for the sailors, soldiers, and servitors concerned in the working of the sails and helm, the defence and the comfort of the dignitaries aboard. In the after-part was another raised deck of more generous dimensions, and on it were the cabins and state-rooms belonging to the governor, the bishop, the captain, and the gentlemen of the retinues belonging to the great personages. Midway between the two decks were the human engines that propelled the unwieldy craft. Twenty-five benches ran down along the starboard side and the larboard, and from each bench a great oar or sweep projected into the water. To each bench were chained three luckless slaves--seventy-five down each side, and a hundred and fifty in all. The benches were intended for four rowers apiece, and could at a pinch accommodate five. The supply of able-bodied prisoners was small, and the Indians refused to undertake the work at a wage, so three men were compelled to manage oars that were a heavy tax on the strength of four. There was a slight compensation in this--the three had room to lie more comfortably at night-time. Between the two lines of benches ran a narrow raised platform, and along this two boatswains walked, whip in hand, to keep the rowers up to their work, and to visit severely any attempt at shirking the forced duties of their unhappy position. About a score of the slaves were white men: there were two Englishmen besides the five from the Golden Boar, the rest being Spaniards or Portuguese convicted of some crime; but the majority of the rowers were Indians, who on some pretext or other had been enslaved and sent in chains to the oars.

The company were all aboard; some in satins and velvets, in glistening armour; some in modest fustian; and as many in nothing but a dirty waist-cloth. The guns from the castle roared out; those of the galley spoke in answer. The trumpeters blew a fanfare; the chief boatswain sounded his whistle; there was a simultaneous crack of two long, cowhide whips, and the human machine in the waist of the galley began its rhythmic work that put life and motion into the vessel.

At number three oar on the starboard side Morgan and Jeffreys tugged, and a Spaniard sat between them. In a line with them were the three sailors of Captain Drake's crew, and at benches numbers one and two larboard and starboard Europeans slaved. Behind them streamed brown lines of meek-faced Indians. In the ordering of his rowers, the Spanish captain did not forget those whose skins were of the same hue as his own, and he spared himself and them the degradation of toiling and suffering side by side with the inferior race; the white men had the fore-part of the benches to themselves. All were stripped to the waist; that was necessary down in the stifling den: moreover the boatswains objected to putting the whip to any back that was covered; they liked to see the effect of the lash, and judge whether the blow was sufficient.

The galley moved out of the harbour in stately fashion; at the peak of the foremast floated the banner of Spain; on either side of the helm the flags of the governor and the bishop fluttered gaily--fraternal strips of emblazoned silk. It was a fair sight and a fair day, and there were proud eyes watching it; but, as is too often the case, the tinsel and show of human vain-glory enshrouded many aching hearts.

The Spaniard that sat between Morgan and Jeffreys was a powerful, black-bearded fellow, inured to his lot by three years of slavery at the oar. The Englishmen were also of uncommon size and strength, so they could keep their sweep going without putting all their energies into their stroke as some of the rowers were forced to do. Behind them, where the Indians rowed, there was more than one stinging lash and squeal of pain before the harbour was cleared. Morgan's cheek flushed at the first cry, and he almost lost grip of his oar. The slip was noted instantly, and a warning, "Steady at number three," recalled him to his task. Jeffreys gave him a look, and the Spaniard cursed volubly at his companion's clumsiness.

"Keep a civil tongue, Hernando," called out the boatswain; "your friend has not had as much practice as yourself; he'll improve."

Hernando spat on the floor. "Dog! son of a dog!" he muttered. "I'll choke 'Hernando' out of his throat. Time was when he addressed me as 'Signer,' and grovelled for favours."

"Pardon, comrade," said Johnnie.

"Granted! granted!" replied the Spaniard. "I meant no offence to you; but you will see that if anything goes wrong at this oar, yonder villain will visit my back with his whip. He always does so."

"I'll do my best to keep the whip from all of us," answered the Englishman. He bent his back to the shameful work, and felt, in the bitterness of his degradation, something less than human. The thoughts that surged through his brain are too pitiful to be set down here. Chained down in a filthy den, liable to be whipped like a beast of burden, fed upon stuff that was but one remove from offal--how horrible! And he could not forget that about a year before he had stood in the court of his sovereign, proud, happy, praised; great men shook him familiarly by the hand, and a winsome maiden smiled upon him. Now he was a chained slave, doomed to work, eat, and sleep on a narrow plank for ten long years. Ten years! could he survive ten days of the horror and squalor and degradation?

The morning wore on. The upper decks were radiant with sunshine, cool with fresh breezes, and gay with laughter. The hold steamed like an oven, stank most offensively, and groaned with anguish. The rowers began to feel the strain, and the captain ordered the broad, lateen sails to be set on both masts. The breeze was well behind, the galley under good way, and for half an hour or so the sweeps were ordered in, and the slaves fed with a lump of coarse biscuit and refreshed with a pannikin of tepid water. Morgan and Jeffreys sat and talked quietly, and called out a cheery word to the three sailors, whose British hearts were bursting with shame and anger.

In the heat of noon the breeze dropped, and the oars were set vigorously to work again. His excellency wanted quicker progress to be made, so the boatswains commenced to chant a rude song as they walked up and down, and called on the rowers to keep time to the swing of the tune. The fellows did their best, and some of the Spanish slaves joined in the chorus. The song, poor as it was heartened them a little; but the spurt did not last long and the singing ceased. The boatswains used other means. Sometimes it was a sharp word or an angry oath, at others a crack of the whip in the air; too often the thong came down with a cruel cut on bare flesh, and there was a cry or an oath from the victim and a frantic tugging at the great oar.

Thus the day wore on; long spells of rowing, short periods of rest; and all the while the slaves grew fainter and yet fainter in their horrible workroom, and the lash of the whips resounded the more often. Hernando was lashed twice, for no real reason that his companions could discover. The second blow curled across the muscle of his arm and benumbed it for a while, and Johnnie whispered him to move in rhythm with them, whilst he and Jeffreys did the actual rowing. The fellow was grateful, and vowed by the Virgin never to forget the kindness.

The late afternoon brought the governor to his first place of call. Rowing ceased; the anchor was dropped, and the slaves were given their supper of biscuit, a scrap of meat, and a pannikin of water just coloured with wine--this last was a special gift from the governor. Then, wearied and aching, they curled up like tired dogs on the benches, adjusted their chains so as to relieve themselves of as much weight as possible, and fell asleep.

Chapter XLVII.

HERNANDO SPEAKS.

The governor's progress lasted about five weeks. The galley sometimes lay at anchor for several days, and on these occasions the slaves went ashore for a time in chained gangs for the sake of the fresh air and the walking exercise; but they spent the greater part of the day chained to the benches, and always slept on them at night. At one place there had been some insubordination amongst the garrison, so the governor paraded the whole of his gaunt, dishevelled, whip-scarred crew through the town, in order to impress the disloyal ones with the power and terror of the law.

During these weeks, and especially during the times of leisure in harbour, the two Englishmen got better acquainted with their companion. At first the Spaniard was moody and inclined to be spiteful: he could not forget that his neighbours were English; but Johnnie's repeated acts of courtesy and kindness, and his cheeriness at times when the three sailors from the Golden Boar got dangerously despondent, broke down the barrier of race and creed and speech. Hernando began to talk of himself. He had been a gentleman adventurer aboard a Spanish ship; was hot-tempered and impatient of official control. On several occasions whilst in harbour at Panama he had come into wordy conflict with the authorities. A sailor aboard his vessel, who had acted as his servant, abused his trust, and had been soundly thrashed in consequence, had gone to the governor with a plausible story concerning a conspiracy which he declared his master was hatching. Hernando was in bad odour with the authorities at the time; had been certainly guilty of rash and foolish speeches; so the story was believed, and he was sent to the galleys. The treacherous servant was rewarded with the post of boatswain, and he used his authority over his old master with the most offensive vindictiveness.

The Europeans talked with one another fairly freely. Morgan and Jeffreys were looked up to by the English section. The two stranger sailors had both been captured in Spanish waters some years before, and, after a period in the jail of Cadiz, sent out to the Indies; they had been galley slaves at Panama for about two years.

One afternoon whilst lolling on his bench, no boatswain or free sailor within hearing, Hernando asked his two English comrades whether they had considered the idea of attempting an escape. They replied that at first they had thought of nothing else, but no ways or means offered, and they had almost abandoned the idea. They detailed the story of their attempt to escape from the prison in Panama. The Spaniard listened carefully.

"Now," he said, "I have seen chances of escape from these chains over and over again; not for one man, mind you, but for a body of resolute fellows who would follow a leader. There are some thorough rascals chained to these benches; I have sounded them, and found that I dared not trust them. It is not difficult for a man to earn his freedom by turning traitor on his comrades; indeed, it is well known that liberty will be given for the betrayal of any plot for revolt: a coward or rogue would take such a chance instantly."

"What about the Indians?" asked Jeffreys.

"Sheep! I do not count upon them, and I have shown you that we dare not depend much on some of our own colour. It is the coming of you two and the three sailors from your ship that has revived my hopes and plans. All the world knows how you Englishmen can fight. I know it, and have hated you for it. I hope to live and find my hatred turned to esteem and affection. The two sailors that were here before you I sounded long ago. One is eager enough; the other has become broken-spirited, and hesitates to venture upon anything where failure would add to his present miseries. Five of you are strong, and not yet cowed at all by the lash. The whip will never cow me. I have a revenge to take; and I will take it, or die in a bold attempt to do so. There are seven of us prepared to plot and dare all in the dash for liberty; one of your countrymen is weak. I can depend pretty confidently on four of my own tongue, and on the gray-bearded Portugee at number one oar. The cut-throats and thieves, that help to make up our number, will fight stoutly enough if suddenly they find themselves free and armed. Love of plunder and thirst for slaughter and revenge will nerve them. But we must not trust them beforehand. The poor Indians, too, will strike a blow at their oppressors if a clear chance of freedom offers."

"You are not hoping for an opportunity in one of these harbours?"

"No, nor in Panama either. Our chance will not come on this voyage; there are too many troops aboard. But we sometimes go out with empty cabins; no one but the captain and his officers. Stores have to be carried from port to port, and treasure fetched from places farther down the coast. It is then, at night, that our hour will come. We must watch for it, prepare for it, and use it without hesitation. Are you with me in the matter?"

"Heart and soul! Heart and soul!"

A boatswain's step was heard, and nothing more was said.

Chapter XLVIII.

THE REVOLT OF THE SLAVES.

The Santa Maria returned to Panama. The governor had no further need of her for a while, so she lay anchored about two cables' length from the quay. The slaves remained aboard, still chained to their benches. The chain that went around their waists was attached to another piece fastened to a ring in the seat itself. This attached piece was just long enough to allow a man to rise and stand upright, but it gave him no chance to take a step in any direction. The galley arrived in harbour in the late afternoon, and pulled in alongside the quay wall. For a couple of hours there was plenty of bustle and confusion aboard; much coming and going of soldiers, sailors, and servitors. Hernando looked eagerly up to the bulwarks many times, as though expecting something; and on more than one occasion he moved his oar three times quickly up and down, just touching the water each time. A sailor ran along the top of the bulwarks, holding to the rigging. The fellow gave a quick glance down, and something dropped into the Spaniard's lap. A minute or two later he was back again; something was dropped this time also. The short twilight had just commenced. A little afterwards the boatswain's whistle sounded, the oars moved, and the galley was rowed out to her berthing station.

The journey that day had been a long one; the unfortunate slaves were half dead with fatigue. The anchor chains rattled, and the great sweeps were drawn in. Lanterns flashed along the boatswains' bridge; cakes, water, and a little fruit were handed down to be eaten and drunken in the dark.

"The saints be praised!" ejaculated Hernando when the last lantern disappeared; "they will not trouble to fetter us to-night. I have prayed all day that they might not. They trust to our fatigue and the guns of the fort. To-morrow we shall probably be chained hand and foot at the oncoming of night. We often get this freedom the first night in harbour, especially if we come in late and wearied. This is our chance, and my friend knew it."

The Spaniard passed a file to Morgan. "I have had one or two of these dropped on several occasions before, but have always thrown them into the water before morning, being afraid to trust my fellows and use them. I signalled for them to-day. Shall we make the venture?"

"The chance is desperate," whispered Johnnie.

"So must any chance be. The guard aboard will be small and sleepy; our limbs are free; we lie a fair distance from the shore. We are never so loosely guarded as when in Panama itself."

The two Englishmen remained silent for perhaps three or four minutes, thinking the matter out. "Let's try, and God be with us!" said Jeffreys. "If we fail, then death is preferable to life in this foetid pit, chained up and treated like dogs."

"I agree!" answered Johnnie.

He and Hernando sat themselves astride the bench, so as to get at the ring that attached the waist chain to the one that was fixed into the seat. This ring necessarily underwent a lot of friction as the men moved about at the oars, and the three had given the ring as much chafing as possible for some two or three weeks. Moreover, the steam from the panting bodies, the mists and spray from the sea, rusted and ate into the iron. There was no chain factory nearer than Europe, and fetters were not easily renewable in Spanish America. In fact, the bonds of the slaves were by no means secure; but they were quite sufficient for their purpose, seeing that the men were keenly watched by day, and when in harbour shackled and manacled at night.

There was a buzz of talking, and plenty of weary shuffling and moaning down on the slaves' deck. Chains clanked and rattled incessantly, and would never be silent for long all through the night, for restless sleepers would toss and turn on their hard couches to relieve pressure on limbs only too often covered with festering and verminous sores. Still, the noise of a file might be detected as an unusual sound; but Hernando and Johnnie took the ring tightly in the palm of the hand, and filed so carefully that Jeffreys, by droning a doleful tune, was able to cover all the noise they made.

The worn ring was soon filed through, and ten minutes later Jeffreys had detached himself, and the bench chain was swinging free under the seat. The files were passed along to the sailors from the Golden Boar, and after a while they were free. No man moved so as to betray the fact. The files came across the gangway, and were passed to the Indians behind. Hernando had let them into the plot, preferring to trust them rather than the white scum. Nine men were soon able to move; the waist chains still girdled them, but this did not interfere with freedom and action, and no time was thrown away in an attempt to cut them through. The three Indians behind the sailors were next liberated. A dozen eager and desperate men were ready to make a dash for life, and hardly two hours had gone by.

"How many more?" whispered Johnnie.

"We must wait before trusting any others," replied the wary Spaniard.

About an hour was allowed to slip by. The freed men laid themselves on their benches and feigned slumber. Twice during the time a sentinel passed along the gangway, and flashed a lantern here and there on to the huddled forms. His glance was of a cursory description. The toil-worn lines of wretched beings lay just as he had seen them a hundred times: some were still as dead logs; others moved and babbled in their sleep; here and there one sat with his head in his hands, bowed down with sleep or agonizing thought. There was nothing unusual; only the familiar scenes and sounds of the slave deck at night. The sentinel walked off to the fore-deck to get a breath of sweeter air and the company of a sailor comrade.

The slaves slept. Being, for the most part, without hope of anything better than a few hours of forgetfulness between the sun-setting and the dawn, the majority gave themselves willingly and thankfully to slumber as soon as the scanty supper was eaten. No flash of a sentinel's lantern, no tramping of feet, no cry of nocturnal bird or beast would waken them; they sank into sleep as into some deep, soundless, lightless pit. God rest all such unhappy ones!

The sentry showed no signs of paying any further visit; the captain was ashore. Hernando slipped from his seat, cautiously wakened the fourth English sailor, and gave him a file with whispered instructions; then he passed on to a trustworthy fellow-countryman of his own and gave him the other. He came back to his bench, and waited for about another quarter of an hour. "Now," he whispered to his two companions. He dropped to the floor and crawled on all fours to the after-part of the ship. No one else moved. After what seemed almost an endless time, he crawled back again. "The way is clear; not three men are awake above our heads. I'll take the Indians; they move as noiselessly as cats."

The Spaniard went to the fore-part of the ship, and three Indians behind him in single file. The other three moved stealthily from bench to bench and awoke their fellows. Hardly a sound had been made. The three sailors from the Golden Boar and Master Jeffreys crawled above deck; Morgan remained in command below.

Minutes passed. A slight sound of a scuffle, a cry, came faintly from the fore-deck. Then dead silence fell again. Time flew on. The tide was beginning to run out; the galley swung with it. The Indians, stolid enough as a rule, began to fidget on their seats. A lantern appeared at the fore end of the rowers' pit. Jeffreys came along.

"Well?" asked Morgan anxiously.

"Ugh! an ugly business. Not a man lives of the crew or guard in the fore-part of the vessel. Hernando's knives and Indian fingers have done their deadly work. Are all awake?"

"Not the Europeans."

"Awaken them; here's a hammer and chisel; get their chains off. Hernando and his Indians are gone to the after-deck to block up the cabin doors. Our three boys are at the anchor. Keep this lantern. We have padded the hawse-hole, but there'll be some noise getting the anchor up. Have the rowers ready for my signal."

There was soon clatter and even clamour amongst the slaves, and Morgan had much ado to keep the wilder ones from shouting and running on deck. One Spaniard who tried to do so, intent upon robbery, was promptly knocked down. "You're not safe yet," cried Johnnie; "you're still in harbour and under the fort guns; you'll sit down and row, or go overboard to the sharks." The fellow poured out a torrent of foul language, but the Englishman's fist was hard, his own oar-comrades were against him, so he sat down and made ready for work.

"Ready?"--Jeffreys' voice.

"Yes."

The anchor rattled on the deck.

"Pull for life and liberty!" called Morgan.

A great sigh ran along the benches; dark figures swayed in the faint light; the splash of oars sounded above the lap of the tide; the great galley was under way and going seawards. The time was some minutes short of midnight.

Panama was asleep. The men rowed slowly, making as little noise as possible until clear of the swarm of canoes and small craft that hung about in the bay. Then they went to work with a will. The oars creaked and groaned; the vessel rolled to the ocean swell. The officers awoke in their cabins only to find themselves trapped. Dawn found the galley well out of sight of land and going northwards.

Chapter XLIX.

EASTWARD HO!

Panama awoke with the sun, discovered the flight of the galley, and made ready for pursuit. There were some small craft in the bay, and these were manned with Indians and soldiers and sent out to sea; but they came back as they went. Truth to tell, the flotilla would have stood no chance against the guns of the Santa Maria, and those aboard the tossing boats knew that.

Thereafter, for some weeks, the town lived its nights in alarm. Fires burned along the fort and on the most seaward points of the bay. No man expected other than that the slaves would come back in the darkness and take a terrible revenge for the cruelties they had suffered. But Panama was alarmed quite needlessly: the galley never rode on its waters again.

The first care of the revolted slaves was to get as far away from their late masters as possible. In spite of their fatigue, they rowed hard until daybreak. At first there was some difficulty with the European riff-raff. These wanted to swagger about on deck and bully the Indians; but neither Hernando nor his two English friends would hear of it. They had chosen the able-bodied sailors from amongst the rowers, and placed them on deck to attend to helm and sails. All not wanted for this duty must sit at the oars. Two or three flatly refused to do so, and began to talk above their deserts. They were promptly put back into chains again, and Hernando stood over them with a whip and flogged them into work. The lesson was not lost on the others.

A breeze came up with the sun; sails were spread, sweeps taken in, and the Indians freed from their chains. The delight of the poor fellows was unbounded. They fell down before their rescuers, worshipping them; then they rushed up on deck, dancing and singing like a mob of children let loose from confinement. There was plenty of excellent food aboard, and for once the rowers fed sumptuously. The breeze continuing, all save the three commanders and the deck hands laid themselves down and slept until nearly noon. Then labour began again. The wind still held strongly, so the natives were put to work cleansing the slave-deck of its accumulated filth. The chains, save about a score of the strongest sets, were tossed overboard. These were kept in case of mutiny amongst the scum whites. There was no fear of trouble with the natives; the faithful, grateful creatures would follow their liberators everywhere.

The cleaning being finished, a council of all the whites--save the three put into bonds--was held on the after-deck. Hernando, as prime mover in the revolt, presided. As the Spaniard was a good seaman, he was unanimously appointed captain; whereupon he chose Morgan, Jeffreys, and a trustworthy Spaniard as his chief officers. Then, before the whole assembly, he swore solemnly to do his utmost for the welfare of his ship; and his three officers, having his promise to issue no orders that a gentleman might hesitate to fulfil, solemnly swore to obey him to the death. The others, according to their several stations, took vows of faithful obedience to their officers.

The captain then proceeded to set matters in order. There were prisoners in the cabins near them; these were brought forth one by one, and examined with commendable fairness. Morgan was surprised at the change in Hernando. He had expected to find him vindictive and cruel, and he knew that not a soul in the fore-part of the galley had been spared in the darkness of the previous night. But liberty had softened the Spaniard; he remembered the injustice he had suffered, not with a view to exacting "eye for eye" and "tooth for tooth" from others, but with the resolve not to inflict injustice upon his fellows. The trials of the prisoners took up the remainder of the day. Some who had been cruel to the slaves were hanged with but little ceremony; it was hardly to be expected that men whose backs still smarted would do otherwise. The two boatswains had perished the night before; the chief boatswain was doomed to share their fate; two others were hanged; the rest were sent below to the slave-deck, and chained to one of the oars, far enough away from the troublesome slaves who were undergoing punishment.

The night passed without alarm. Hernando and Morgan walked the deck for hours in the starlight, planning for the future. They saw the difficulties and dangers of their position, but could not clearly see a way out of them. They had a ship, well manned and well armed, and fairly well victualled. What should they do with her? Search would be made for them, and galley after galley, ship after ship, coming into Panama, would be sent in quest of them. It they continued in Spanish waters, they must be overtaken at some time or other. What would the result be? They had guns, ammunition, and a fair supply of weapons, but their fighting capacity was very small. The Indians--or most of them--must be at the oars. Out of less than a score of Europeans, some must be about deck duties. A mere handful of men would be left to work the guns and fight. A foe of any strength must inevitably capture them.

Should they attempt to cross the Atlantic to England? There again came the question of capture. Would the Indians remain faithful if any attempt were made to take them thousands of miles from their homes? Should they turn corsairs; capture a sailing ship; set the Indians ashore on their own coast, or leave them the galley to do as they pleased with it? The two men could not make up their minds.

The next day the same thoughts came to the rest of the Europeans, and they were heard discussing their chances of ultimate escape. Another full council was held, and the position placed clearly before them all. There were many differences of opinion, but eventually it was agreed that there was too much danger in remaining near the seaboard of Spanish America, and equal or greater peril to be encountered in an attempt to make a winter passage to Europe. No man would face the voyage round Cape Horn with an inadequate crew and a clumsy galley mainly propelled by oars. The voyage would take nearly a year, and they had provisions for about a fortnight. The plan of capturing a small ship was more favourably considered; but the question arose, Where could such a ship be found? If they got into the ordinary track of navigation, other and less welcome vessels might sight them. The position was distinctly perilous, and a bad feature of it all was that some of the rescued men were thoroughly treacherous and untrustworthy, and others so broken down by years of slavery as to be helpless for strenuous action. The three ringleaders saw plainly that they had less than a dozen men, including themselves, that could be relied upon for loyal, valiant, and intelligent conduct in an emergency. They went to rest that night with no definite plans for the morrow. The galley was kept slowly going northward towards the Pacific coast of Mexico; the oars were little used.

The next morning Hernando took definite steps. He took the captured officers and the recalcitrant whites, put them into a boat within sight of land, set them adrift, and stood out to sea again. He had none under his command then who were not at least faithful.

For a couple of days he went north, well out to sea. Then he turned inshore again, coasted for a while, until he came to a wooded bay that offered good anchorage. Entering this he dropped his anchor, and went ashore with Morgan and half a dozen or so of the Indians. The party was away for some hours, and only returned at sunset. The next day the object of the expedition was disclosed. Hernando called the whole crew, white and Indian, before him. He explained the dangers they were hourly in on the high seas, and the impossibility of fighting any strong adversary. Food was running short, and a long voyage in the galley was out of the question. He proposed to take to the land himself, and hazard his chance of life and liberty there. The Indians could scatter abroad. The forest teemed with game, and he and his party had seen many streams. No village or town was anywhere in sight. The chances of escape into Mexico were excellent for whites and natives alike. Or any man who wished it might try to reach his own tribe again; a matter of half a moon of marching would bring him to his people. Every man should take some weapon and as much food as he cared to carry. His plan included the burning of the galley, so that all trace of them might be lost.

The natives rejoiced at the chance of quitting the hated galley for their native woods, and the Europeans saw that their captain's plan offered them the best hope of safety; they agreed also.

The Santa Maria was partially dismantled. All that was of value in her was taken out; the food was shared, arms distributed, and the whole party went ashore in the boats. Hernando stayed last, and fired the vessel before he left her. During the whole night she blazed, illuminating the camp of her late occupants amid the trees on the shore. The Indians had rigged up two tents with the sails, and in these their white companions slept comfortably.

No move was made from the camping-place on the shore for several days. The Indians scouted round in all directions, going fifty or sixty miles through forest and over mountain, and spying out the land. Hernando, meanwhile, tried to get some idea of his position on the Pacific coast. From his observations, and the reports of the natives, he concluded that he must be somewhere west of the great lake of Nicaragua, and in a line for the small town of San Juan on the Atlantic coast, not more than a week's march away.

When fairly satisfied of this, he struck his camp, and marched inland over the mountains. The natives carried one boat. In due time they saw a vast stretch of water below them, and knew that the lake lay in their path.

On the shores of the lake the white men had decided to part from their native companions. Villages clustered here and there on the margin of the waters, and the appearance of a large company would spread alarm, and send reports through the land that might betray them all. The leave-taking was pathetic enough. The poor Indians looked like so many helpless children. They begged the white men to stay with them, and settle in the mountains between the lake and the sea. The country was rich, and food and water plentiful. They would be faithful children to their white fathers, if the latter would but stay to guide, protect, and counsel them.

But neither Englishmen nor Spaniards had any desire to rule as petty chiefs in a Central American forest; their thoughts and hopes took higher flights than that. Adieus were said; the Europeans took to their boat, with but one Indian as a scout and possible interpreter, and pulled out from the shore, the mass of natives rushing after them into the water, weeping and lamenting.

The passage of the lake was safely accomplished; the course of a river flowing into it was followed as far as it was navigable. Then the party camped whilst the Indian went to the hilltops in the east, and surveyed the land that sloped away to the coast. He was away about forty hours.

On his return with a favourable report the camp was struck and the boat burned. Then, carefully covering up their tracks, the fugitives set out for the Atlantic coast. It was hardly possible that any report of their escape would have reached so far, and the authorities would never look for them on the eastern ocean.

When the outskirts of San Juan were reached, Hernando went on as advance guard. The next day they all entered the town as a party of shipwrecked sailors. The Englishmen had been rechristened with Spanish names for the nonce, and they wisely left the talking to their Spanish companions. They were received without suspicion.

Chapter L.

HOME.

The Englishmen were doomed to idle about in San Juan for some weeks, and during that time the little money they had found on the Santa Maria melted away. Vessels did not enter the little port very often. The Portuguese and Spaniards, save Hernando, found temporary work on neighbouring estates and plantations, and Morgan and his fellows of the Golden Boar had plenty of offers of employment; but they preferred to abide together under the wing of Hernando, fearing to betray their nationality by mixing separately and freely with the Spanish settlers. Hernando for his part stuck loyally to them, and none of the others said or did aught to bring suspicion upon their late comrades. The fugitives longed and waited for a ship, hoping to get a passage in her to some place off the mainland. It was by no means an unusual thing for sailors to desert their ship when she touched at a port; some, indeed, undertook a voyage with this end in view, the allurements of the golden tropics proving stronger than any sense of duty.

At length a small ship arrived from Cuba, bringing a consignment of Spanish goods from the depôt at Santiago; she was to take back silver bars for transhipment to Lisbon. Would the skipper give a passage to seven strange sailors whose appearance was not too Spanish? It was doubtful. Yet it turned out that he was only too glad to do so. More than seven of his crew deserted, and went away to the west in search of the silver mines from which the bars had come. Morgan always had a shrewd suspicion that Hernando cleverly engineered the desertion for the sake of his English friends. In any case the desertion took place most opportunely, and the fugitives got the passage they desired. For the sake of appearances both gentlemen adventurers played the part of common sailors. At the last moment Hernando decided to go to Cuba with them. He felt that a few months there would do him good, and help certain keen-eyed people to forget his face. Moreover, he was generously anxious to see the safety of the Englishmen more fully assured.

The season was not the best in the year for sailing, and the voyage to Santiago was a rough one. The new sailors behaved admirably; and though the captain was more than a little suspicious of their nationality, he said nothing and paid them well. Moreover, he was largely instrumental in getting them a passage to Europe. Hernando's tongue and the talismanic name of Drake did the rest.

The Donna Philippa was a galleon of medium class, but well-built and swift-sailing. She was attempting the Atlantic voyage in the winter season, as the authorities preferred to trust her precious cargo to the chances of the storms rather than to the mercies of the English corsairs. These were not abroad on the high seas in the cold season, when ocean traffic was small and tempests frequent; but in the summer time no Spanish captain knew when one of the dreaded craft might appear above the horizon. It is difficult to realize nowadays the terror that Drake and fellow captains--pirates all--had inspired in the breasts of Spanish seamen.

The galleon had not her full complement of crew, for there were some who had come out who were not as favourably disposed towards a winter voyage as was their captain. The latter spoke to the skipper of the coaster concerning his difficulties, and the skipper told him of the men he had picked up at San Juan. He did not hide his suspicions that there was more English than Spanish blood in their veins. He acknowledged that they were splendid sailors; but, being as he believed English deserters, he regarded them as desperate fellows, assuming a gentleness and zealous obedience quite foreign to their nature.

It was here that Hernando stepped in and played his part. No one doubted his nationality; and he, hearing of the shortage of good sailors on the galleon, did his last ingenious act of kindness for his comrades in misfortune. Over a cup of wine in the state-room of the Donna Philippa he told a story that did his heart and his wits equal credit. He began it by confirming the skipper's suspicions that his last batch of sailors were English to the very marrow of their bones.

"Yet I love them," he declared, "and would place my life and my father's life in their hands without an instant's hesitation."

Then followed an account of his own shipwreck months before with some other Spanish gentlemen. "We found," said he, "a boat, and coasted with her seeking a harbour. We met the Englishmen, wrecked also. They were a stronger party than we were. They joined us--worked with us for months like brothers. We sailed seas together, fought foes, swam rivers, climbed mountains, threaded forests, shared food, drink, raiment, money--everything. They told us their story. Two of them, as you may see, are not common sailors, but gentlemen of position, favourites of their Queen, bosom friends and lovers of Drake, Raleigh, Hawkins, Grenville, Whiddon, and all the mighty English captains. They want to get home. Take them as they are. I'll pledge my life they'll serve you faithfully and cheerfully, and they'll insure your cargo against seizure by their friends! Mark that; their presence aboard the Donna Philippa will assure her the polite and friendly attentions of every English captain on the high seas. See the two gentlemen in my presence, and find out their value for yourself. Were I in your place I should fall down and thank the Mother of God for sending me such help in my hour of need."

The captain of the galleon pondered the matter. Hernando pressed his views upon him, and the skipper of the coaster seconded him. Morgan and Jeffreys were brought aboard. They readily offered themselves as working passengers; expressed themselves as willing to take an oath of fidelity to the captain if he would take another one to them; and assured him that no English captain would rob him of a jot of his cargo, or treat him other than as a friend and brother, whilst they were with him to tell of his kindness to them.

The bargain was struck. Morgan, Jeffreys, and the five sailors were duly entered on the ship's books, owning to the Spanish names bestowed on them by Hernando. The two gentlemen went as passengers, with a sailor each as servant; the other three took their places amongst the crew. Two of them had been long enough in the galleys to speak Spanish as well as they spoke their mother tongue. They cleared Santiago safely towards the end of January.

The Donna Philippa was called upon to pay some penalty for her rashness in crossing the Atlantic in winter. Again and again did the tempests strike her, shattering some of her timbers, swamping her with terrific seas, and driving her for days out of her proper course. It is probable that the greater skill of her English sailors and passengers alone saved her from destruction. They were more accustomed to the stormy northern seas than were their Spanish comrades, and they set an example of cool courage and endurance that saved the galleon from worse disasters than those that actually befell her. If he met no English corsairs, the Spanish captain had reason to congratulate himself on his wisdom in accepting Hernando's advice in Santiago. Needless to say, the ship was never becalmed, and the howling winds that drove her out of her way would often moderate, turn round, and send her bowling homewards. The skipper hoped to make the Azores as his first land, but a south-westerly wind springing up in early March and continuing for some days, he held on direct for Lisbon. So far no human enemy had molested him.

The ship was nearing the coast of Portugal, and the sailors were expecting to sight land on the morrow. March was half-way through, the sun warm by day and the breezes often southerly and genial. Morgan and Jeffreys were wondering what might befall them in the realms of King Philip, and how they should get ship from there to England. They had but little money, as the captain had treated them as guests of gentle birth, paying with food the services they could render him. Spain was dangerous ground for English feet, and no foreign land could well be pleasant to a set of penniless men. The prospect was not alluring.

Now and again sails appeared above the horizon, and after weary watching Jeffreys espied one that he declared to be English. The vessel was coming up from the south, and the Donna Philippa was steering almost due east. At a certain point their paths would cross. The two Englishmen went to the captain and called his attention to this, and asked him to shape his course so as to meet the oncoming boat, and put them aboard if she chanced to be English.

The skipper demurred at first. His cargo was precious, but safe; he was almost in sight of home. Why should he run risks? The adventurers assured him that there could be no risk. The stranger vessel was a small one; if any other than English, she would never dare to fight a ship of the tonnage of the Donna Philippa; and if English, they would guarantee that not a blow should be struck. After much persuasion the captain consented.

The little ship was hailed, and proved to be a Canary trader bound for Bristol. Morgan went aboard and explained matters, and the captain gladly consented to receive them and give them a passage home. So, to the surprise of the crew of the galleon, the men were transhipped a day's sail from harbour.

Ten days later the trader dropped anchor in the Avon. Morgan went to the mayor of the city, saw him privately, and explained who he was, and what had befallen him and his comrades. His worship listened to the story, and advanced the adventurer money to take him and his friends to their homes. The next day the seven, with handshakes, kisses, even tears, separated and went their several ways.

Chapter LI.

THE FOREST AGAIN--AND THE SEA.

Johnnie Morgan had tramped up from Bristol to Berkeley, and now stood on the Severn bank at the eastern end of the ferry to Gatcombe and the snug ingle-corner of the old farmhouse. Such a crowd of thoughts, hopes, dreads, rushed into his mind that the whirl and jostle of them in his brain made him giddy. He had left Bristol at dawn; it was now late afternoon and an April day. He had entered the "Berkeley Arms" in the old feudal town, called for his ale, and been stared at by an old crony, yet never recognized. A year of absence, danger, privation, slavery had put five years at least on to the young yeoman's back. The laughter had gone out of his eyes, the roundness out of his cheeks, and his walk was stiff.

He hailed the ferryman. The man came slowly across from Gatcombe. Johnnie recognized his stroke before he clearly detected the body from the boat. Here was the real touch of home. Old Evan would stare at him, doubtless, but only for a moment. Then would come the affectionate cry, "Plague take me! if it b'aint Jack Morgan. Welcome home, my son; we'd given thee up for dead!"

The ferryman came; his fare stepped in. The ferryman stared not once nor twice, but apparently he gave up the puzzle that troubled his mind, for he took the ha'penny fare with no other remark than that the day had been very warm for the time o' year. Johnnie went up the hill feeling very depressed. On a sudden impulse he turned aside from the highroad and took the path by the river through the fields to his own lands. He felt he could not bear another familiar face to look into his and not give him an old-time affectionate greeting. He tried to persuade himself that the light was getting weak, but looking around he could distinguish small objects on the other side of the river, and he recognized old Biddy Gale coming down to the well at the bottom of her garden to draw water.

The red roofs of Blakeney showed up against the dark background of the trees. He looked for his own house. No smoke curled from the chimneys. His heart seemed suddenly to turn to a lump of lead. An urchin was coming along the path; he determined to talk to him.

The boy came whistling along, spied the tall, gaunt, bearded stranger, and ceased his piping. When Johnnie turned towards him he made as though to bolt, but thought better of it and came on.

"Is yonder place Blakeney?" asked the young man.

"It is," was the reply.

"Doth one Master John Morgan live there?"

"A-did in the time past, good master; but, preserve us from evil! the Spaniards roasted and eat him somewhere in the Indies."

A faint smile flickered across Johnnie's face. "How sad!" he cried. "Who then lives in his house yonder?"

"Just a widow woman and her maid. They will not quit, they say, until a twelvemonth and a day be gone by from the time the rascal Dons laid hands on their master. They will have it that he will come back; and Mistress Dawe of Newnham, and a sailor-man named Dan of Plymouth, do hold with them."

Johnnie wanted to ask a question about Dolly, but the words would not come. The lad relieved him by continuing to unload his budget of information.

"The sailor-man be lodged at the farm, much against the widow's wish--so she says; but he declares he will not budge, lest Master Morgan should come home and find never the face of an old shipmate to cheer him." (The smile flickered across Johnnie's face again.) "Mistress Dawe be now at the house, if thou art minded to walk thither. She comes there at times and stays for two or three days. Folks do say that she expects John Morgan to walk in some evening. They were lovers, ye know."

"Ah!" said Johnnie, with a catch in his breath.

"Yon's the house, behind the hayricks. Fine harvest Master Morgan had last year. All the lads in this part of the forest looked after his fields in turns. I helped to get in his hay and corn, and the widow gave a harvest home just as the master would have done."

"Didst know this Morgan, sonnie?"

"Ay, I do mind him well. Thou dost favour him somewhat, only he was a taller and properer man and had no beard."

"Well, I'll go to the house; here's a penny for thee. Tell thy father that a tall man who hath been in the Indies hath been asking for Master Morgan."

Johnnie walked on, his heart beating to the rhythm, "Dolly is there! Dolly is there!" He jumped a stile. His own fields! He looked around; no one was in sight, so he pressed his lips to the turf, then whispered a quick, passionate prayer. Rising up again, eyes wet, knees trembling, he walked on.

He had turned up the path from the river; his orchard was before him. He turned to look behind at the rushing stream and the gulls circling in the rays of the setting sun. There was a flutter of white at the river-stile. His heart stood still. Could it be? No!--Was it?--Yes! He started riverwards at a run; then stopped; hesitated; walked soberly on.

The flutter of white again from the shadow of the hedge; the figure of a girl, bonnetless, her hair gently lifting with the breeze, stood out clear and unmistakable. He stopped. The maid stepped a little forward and shaded her eyes with her hand. With an uncontrollable impulse his arms stretched out.

"Dolly!"

A cry from the stile. A girl sprang forward, raced up the field, and threw herself into his arms. "Johnnie! Johnnie! Thank God! thank God! I dreamt you would come back and find me where we last met, just like this!"

The next day the forest rang with the news that Johnnie Morgan was home again, and foresters, miners, and fishers made so merry over the event that Johnnie thought it worth while to have gone through so much in order to give them such a jubilant time.

Three weeks afterwards the maidens chose pretty Dolly as "Queen of May," and when she was crowned they led her to the church above the river--all in her garlands gay--and there a tall, sun-browned youth took her "for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer," till death should part them. And there were rare junketings and feastings to celebrate the union of the two woodland favourites.

Johnnie abode at home for one year. Then he was tempted to go again to London, and from thence he went by sea to Plymouth. There he met the admiral, his brother John, Jacob Whiddon, Sir John Trelawny, and other sea-going worthies, and there was much talk concerning the Indies.

Johnnie came home, and one night he said to his wife Dorothy, "I have been thinking that I left some honour behind me on the other side of the world. Master Jeffreys sends me a letter this morning, and Sir Walter hath written a postscript to it. I cannot forget what was done at Panama, and there are some who should suffer for the cruelties done to Nick and Ned Johnson and others who sailed on the Golden Boar. The ship is fitting for another voyage, and I have still an interest in her. What dost say, sweetheart? thou knowest the thoughts that are in my mind."

Well, Mistress Morgan said nothing that night, but she wept a little and sighed oft. But the next day she said "Go, husband, and God go with thee!"

So the Golden Boar went westward ho! again, and Dan Pengelly and all her old company that were above ground went in her. And Captain Jacob Whiddon went too, in a second ship called the Elizabeth. There was no wild-goose chase this time after golden cities that could not be found. But the Englishmen harried the Spanish settlements along the South American coast and in the Mexican Gulf, and preyed upon King Philip's shipping. They sent an expedition two hundred strong across to Panama and raided the town, daringly marching back to the Atlantic with no man presuming to stop them.

They came home to Plymouth laden with spoil, gotten mainly by piracy and the breaking of the laws of nations. But their countrymen acclaimed them to the skies, holding them to be no robbers, but heroes and patriots all!

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