The Golden Galleon

By ROBERT LEIGHTON

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A PERILOUS SITUATION

The Golden Galleon

BEING A NARRATIVE OF THE ADVENTURES
OF MASTER GILBERT OGLANDER, AND OF
HOW, IN THE YEAR 1591, HE FOUGHT UNDER
THE GALLANT SIR RICHARD GRENVILLE IN
THE GREAT SEA-FIGHT OFF FLORES, ON
BOARD HER MAJESTY'S SHIP THE REVENGE

BY

ROBERT LEIGHTON
Author of
"The Pilots of Pomona" "Olaf the Glorious" "The Thirsty Sword" &c.
ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM RAINEY R.I.
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

PREFACE.

In this present amphibious story I have tried to represent some of the conditions of life ashore and afloat in the glorious days of Queen Elizabeth; but I must state, to begin with, that the only portion of the narrative that is actually based upon historical fact is the account of Lord Thomas Howard's expedition against the West Indian treasure-ships. In this part of the story I have closely followed the original report of the last fight of The Revenge, as it was written by Sir Walter Raleigh some few weeks after the battle.

My friend Commander C. N. Robinson tells me that Sir Richard Grenville's disregard of Admiral Howard's instructions was, strictly speaking, a breach of discipline. Whether or not this was the case need not here be discussed. All that we need remember just now is that Sir Richard was one of the bravest of the many brave men of his splendid time, and that, undismayed by the almost certain prospect of defeat, he led a forlorn hope, plunged into the glorious fray, and fought to the death with a boldness which has never been excelled in all the course of our naval history.

Grenville was not a great admiral as Drake and Nelson were great, and this most memorable action upon which his fame must always rest was not an example of the supremest heroism, simply because his success or failure involved no high or very noble principle. But the worst that can be said of his daring exploit is that it was the Balaclava charge of the Spanish war; at its best it was an example, and a very grand example, of that British pluck and intrepidity which have ever been the distinguishing characteristics of our fighting countrymen; and I shall be glad if, in writing this story, I help in some measure to instil into my young readers a fuller pride in the navy which has secured for England her supremacy upon the seas.

ROBERT LEIGHTON.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE GOLDEN GALLEON.

CHAPTER I.

TIMOTHY TROLLOPE.

"TIM," said Peter Trollope, looking up from the oily whetstone that lay on the edge of the table in front of him, and slowly wiping the blade of the razor on the broad palm of his hand, "I want thee to go fetch me some more herbs."

"Herbs?" repeated Tim from the far corner of the shop, where he was sprawling upon the floor side by side with a very ugly-looking bull-dog.

"Ay," returned his father, running the edge of the razor along his thumb-nail to test its keenness. "My stock is at an end, and I have none left to make up the physic for Cap'n Cruse's sick wife. 'Tis some hellebore roots that I need most, and a little meadow-saffron and jasmine, and, if thou canst come upon them, a handful of yew-berries. You will find them all in Modbury Park if I make no mistake—over against the plantation of fir-trees where we saw the dead hind. I'd have thee go there this morning; and see that thou tarry not over long by the way, for I shall need thy help in distilling them."

Timothy rose slowly to his feet. There was a look of glum discontent on his face. It was evident that he was in nowise willing to obey his father's behest.

"What!" cried Peter, glancing at the lad with sharp reproof. "Dost object to the journey? Now, prithee, what wild boy's adventure hast thou on hand that is more to thy humour?"

Timothy looked dreamily out through the little latticed window towards the quay, and his eyes wandered for a time among the masts and riggings of the ships.

"I was but thinking to go out for a sail in Ambrose Pennington's fishing-boat," he said in a sulky undertone.

"A plague on your fishing-boats!" exclaimed Peter somewhat angrily. "Y'are for ever thinking of the sea and ships and all such mischievous inventions! I'll not have it, look you. And to-day, so please you, you'll do my bidding and go fetch me these herbs, and there's an end on't."

Timothy made no answer, for at this moment a hairy-faced mariner entered the shop, making a great noise upon the sanded floor with his heavy sea-boots.

"Give you good-morning, Master Whiddon," said Peter Trollope with a bow and a smile, as he offered the man a chair in the middle of the room. "What may be your honour's will?"

"Trim me my beard, Master Trollope," returned the seaman, seating himself in the chair and stretching out his legs in front of him; "and tell me your news; for 'tis a good two years since I was last ashore in Plymouth, and I am full eager, as you may be sure, to learn all that hath happened in my absence."

Timothy opened a little locker under the window and drew forth a large canvas wallet, which he strapped over his shoulder. Then he crossed over to a door and disappeared into an inner room behind the shop, leaving his father to attend to his customer and retail news that to the boy, at all events, was as stale as a last year's chestnut.

Peter Trollope was a barber-surgeon. He carried on his useful art (for in his deft hands it was in truth an art) at the sign of the Pestle and Mortar, down against Sutton Pool. He was a great man in Plymouth town, by reason of his entertaining talk and his skill alike in surgery and in hairdressing; and his little shop was the lounging-place of all the idle young gallants of the port, who came in to discuss the latest news from London, to gossip about their neighbours' affairs and about the ships, or to learn the tricks and fashions in the new art of taking tobacco. Men who had received sword-wounds in street frays or damaged skulls in tavern brawls came to him to have their hurts dressed and plastered; he had a famous tincture for the toothache, a certain remedy for melancholy, and at curing the common ailments of children and old women no doctor in the town could beat him. Mariners just home after a long voyage came to him to have their overgrown locks shorn and their beards singed. Poor workmen and apprentices came to him to be polled for twopence, were soon trimmed round as a cheese, and dismissed with a hearty "God speed you, my master!" There were many high and mighty gentlemen among his customers too, I do assure you; for he had starched the beard of the great Sir Walter Raleigh, curled the moustachios of brave Sir Francis Drake, and tied up the lovelocks of courtly Sir Anthony Killigrew.

The Pestle and Mortar stood facing the busy wharf at the corner of one of the narrow alleys that led up into the town. The upper windows of the house looked out across the Pool, where all the ships and fishing-boats were harboured. From these upper windows you could, if you had only been there, see down upon the ships' decks and watch the brown-faced seamen at their work of discharging the merchandise that they had brought from distant climes; and in the street below there was the channel where, on wet days, the rain-water rushed by in a deep stream; and where, when the rain had ceased, young Timothy Trollope and his playmates used to go out in their bare feet and sail their tiny boats, and imagine these bits of rough-hewn stick to be Spanish galleons, laden with gold, or corsair galleys with cargoes of Christian captives for the slave-markets of Algiers.

Timothy's games had always some connection with ships (which, I suppose, was natural enough, seeing that he had been born and brought up in sight of the sea, and with the smell of tar rope and bilge-water for ever in his nostrils), and all his boyish ambitions were of travel and adventure, fostered, it may be, by the travellers' talk he had heard from the mariners who gossiped with his father in the barber's shop.

Many of these adventurous mariners, remembering past benefits that they had received at the hands of the kindly barber-surgeon, or perhaps being short of money (as they ofttimes were, in spite of the vast treasures that they had voyaged and fought for in far-off regions), had given or sold to him many relics of their travels in foreign lands, and the shop was a veritable museum of curiosities from all parts of the known world. Here was a live poll-parrot brought home by one of Sir Richard Grenville's seamen from Virginia; the jaws of a giant shark that had been killed by John Hawkins' boatswain off the west coast of Africa; a Turk's scimitar, a Patagonian's war-club, a red Indian's tobacco-pipe, an Icelander's harpoon, and even some of the so-called gold brought back by Sir Martin Frobisher from distant Greenland. People who had never crossed the seas regarded these things with wonder and reverence, but seamen were wont to scoff at them, and to declare that they were but the sweepings and refuse of ships' cabins. Peter Trollope, however, was proud of his curious collection; and often, when business was slack, he would sit in his chair by the fire and look at the things each in turn, and grumble that Providence had not made him an adventurer instead of a quiet, stay-at-home barber-surgeon.

Master Thomas Cavendish, the great explorer, when he was fitting out his ship, the Hugh Gallant, for his voyage round the world, had once said to him:

"Peter, thou art too good a man to be wasting thy palmiest days at the clipping of hair. Those strong big limbs of thine should rather be employed in the hauling of ropes, the shifting of heavy guns, or fighting against the Spaniards. Now, my ship will be a-sailing out of Plymouth Sound in a few days' time, wilt shut up shop and join us? I do faithfully promise that thou shalt come back home again at the end of two brief years a wealthier man than ever the use of such trifling instruments as scissors and curling-irons can make thee."

But Peter was already a married man, with a growing family of boys to keep and to clothe and to send out upon the world, and he chose the certainty of an easy livelihood rather than the promise of riches which were to be gained, if at all, by deserting his home and leaving his wife and children to shift for themselves. He had reflected, too, that if there were Spaniards to be fought abroad, there was also a threatened danger from the same dread enemy at home in England, and that Queen Elizabeth had as great need for landsmen to defend her coasts as for mariners to extend her power beyond the seas. And, indeed, when that danger arrived (as it did in the year 1588, when Timothy was a boy of twelve years old) Peter proved himself ready and willing to fight for his country, albeit the sum of his work on that glorious occasion was no more than to help to light the bonfire on Plymouth Hoe—the first of those beacon-fires which flashed along the coast to warn all England of the coming of King Philip's great armada.

The memorable rout of the Spanish ships had taken place just two years before the opening of my story, and Timothy Trollope was now a well-grown lad of fourteen. He could remember all the events of the chase up the Channel, for he had heard the story repeated many times by men who had fought upon the Queen's ships. He was reminded of them every day; and even this morning as he strode through the town with his bag over his shoulders on his way to Modbury, he saw a group of the Spanish prisoners of war standing in the market-place—dark-visaged, evil-looking men, who seemed to be for ever plotting and scheming how they might escape from England and get back to their own orange groves in sunny Seville.

Tim hated the Spaniards (as I suppose all English boys hated them at that time), and he was careful to pass the señors at a very safe distance, believing that there was danger in being close to them, and that under their long black cloaks each of them carried a rapier or a stiletto ready to his hand, to draw upon any unwary person who should happen to betray by look or sign the enmity that was in the hearts of all the townsfolk, young and old. For although the prisoners were out on their parole and were strictly forbidden to carry arms, yet Timothy always secretly mistrusted them, and suspected them, not without reason, of carrying weapons which they were only too ready to use.

It was a long walk from Plymouth to Modbury Park; but the morning was fine, and Timothy, having left the town behind, tramped merrily along the shady country lanes, slashing with his stick at the rank weeds that grew at the wayside, and fancying that each nettle and foxglove that he laid low was a proud Spaniard whom he had slain.

As he crossed the fields by a footpath leading towards Beddington Dingle, a covey of partridges, alarmed at his approach, rose with a noisy whirr of wings from the stubble. In the woods of the dingle he watched a squirrel running along the high branch of an oak-tree, and in a ditch at the farther border of the wood he startled a rat, and loitered there for a long, long time trying to discover the hole into which the animal had escaped.

While he was searching he heard voices from behind him, mingled with the screaming of hawks, the yelping of dogs, and the tinkling of bells.

"Well cast off aloft, ah!—well flown!" cried one voice.

"Now she hath seized the fowl," cried another, "and 'gins to plume her—rebeck her not!—stand still and check her!"

Timothy turned quickly round. High in the air he saw a heron flying, pursued by a couple of falcons, that whirled about their quarry, shunning its spear-like beak. At a moment of advantage one of the hawks mounted yet higher, and then, swooping down, struck like a thunderbolt upon her prey and seized the fowl within her talons. A shower of feathers floated down into the midst of the joyous crowd of men and women who were watching the sport from their horses' backs in the stubble-field.

It was a very gay and courtly company. Here on their prancing horses were many elegant gentlemen wearing plumed hats and bright-coloured capes; ladies with their snow-white ruffs and their long velvet gowns that almost swept the daisies and dandelions at their horses' feet; and all were laughing and calling aloud in their excitement as they compared the merits of their birds, or made wagers on the success of their flights.

Near to where Timothy stood, an old gentleman with a pointed white beard and a russet-coloured doublet rode on a very large chestnut horse. He carried a merlin hawk perched on his fist, but he seemed to take less interest in the sport than did his younger companions. Timothy had seen him many times before, both in Plymouth and at Modbury Park, and knew him to be the great Baron Champernoun, the lord of the manor of Modbury, a noted soldier and courtier. A very beautiful lady rode by his side, wearing a sombre black gown and a wide black hat with black feathers. She looked strangely out of place among her gaily-dressed friends, and Timothy wondered why she should wear this habit of gloom, until he saw her face, when he at once recognized her as the Lady Elisabeth Oglander, and knew that her reason for shunning bright colours in her apparel was the death of her most noble husband, the honourable Edmund Oglander, who had fallen in battle in the Netherlands while fighting against the Spaniards.

She drew rein, and the master falconer approached her with his square frame round his waist, on which were perched some half-dozen hawks with their hoods and bells and their scarlet tufts. The lady leaned over on her saddle and took a hawk from the falconer's hand. The bird flapped its wings in great commotion until it was fairly perched on the fingers that held it. Then the Lady Elizabeth, holding her hand aloft, rode off across the field, followed presently by the rest of the hawking party, while Tim Trollope watched them disappear round a corner of the wood.

As he turned to continue his way he came face to face with a boy of about his own age, who was carrying some dead partridges—spoils of the chase.

"Helloh, Will!" cried Timothy, recognizing the lad. "I had thought you were at work on Modbury farm. Hast had a rise in the world that you are out here at the heels of the gentlefolks?"

"A rise, do you call it?" returned Will. "That is as it may be. For my own part I do call it but a change of labour. I get no more pay for't, I promise you; and 'tis a vast deal harder work than the herding of cattle or the tending of sheep. I like it not, Tim; and 'tis certain I shall not stand it much longer." He dropped his burden on the grass at his feet and gazed idly about him with a dreamy look in his eyes. Presently he added, "I am for the sea, if peradventure I can get a ship to take me. I'd leave to-morrow an I could get someone to take my place."

Timothy glanced quickly at his young friend.

"I'll take it!" he cried eagerly. "I'll take your place, and gladly. For I have been wanting these many months past to go to work, and, since my father will not suffer me to go to sea, why, there is nothing I'd like better than to be in the service of my Lord Champernoun."

And with this new idea in his head he went on his way, inwardly resolving that on the very next day he would go up to Modbury Manor and apply to his lordship's bailiff, entreating him to give him work, either on the farm or else in the mews where the hawks were kept. And he had little doubt that when once he had got promise of employment there would be no possible opposition from his father.

This thought of his father reminded him that he had not yet begun to gather the herbs for which he had been sent out, so he went on over the fields until he came to the fir plantation in Modbury Park, and there in a quiet hollow he began to fill his wallet with such roots and berries as the barber-surgeon had bidden him bring home.

He had walked round by the lake, and was unearthing the root of a rare herb which he knew that his father would set great store by, when, without the warning of any previous sound or movement he felt himself suddenly seized from behind and held firmly by his leather belt.

Now, although the hand which held him was a very tiny one, yet it gripped him with surprising tenacity, and the suddenness of the assault was such that the lad, knowing that he was a trespasser on private ground, was greatly alarmed. He thought at once of my lord's gamekeeper, and he dreaded the consequences. He struggled to wrench himself away, and turned to confront his assailant. Instead of the man that he had expected, he beheld a little maid whose large blue eyes regarded him with an expression of ferocity that would have been terrible if it had not been merely assumed. She wore a lace-trimmed frock of golden-brown velvet that came down nearly to her toes. There was a crimson silk sash about her waist and a milk-white ruffle round her neck, and her cheeks were rosy with glowing health. She was beautiful to behold. But Tim thought nothing of her beauty; he was only astonished that so dainty a little gentlewoman, the granddaughter of a noble baron as he knew her to be, should display such boldness as to lay hands upon him, the son of a poor barber. He looked at her in amazement.

"Certes, Mistress Oglander," said he in his confusion, "how you did startle me! I heard not your approach."

"That is scarcely to be believed," quoth she, still gripping his belt, "for we have been firing our guns into your quarter this half-hour past!" Then tugging at him with renewed energy, she added, "You are now fairly conquered and our lawful prize of war."

"Nay, Mistress Oglander," stammered Timothy, "I know not what you mean! I am but gathering a few poor herbs for my father, Master Trollope, the barber-surgeon of Plymouth, and I beg you to release me."

Mistress Oglander looked strangely incredulous, and for a moment she relaxed her hold of him. She glanced round as though in search of someone whom she expected to see among the trees at the edge of the lake.

"I care not whose son you may be," said she. "In real truth you are no man's son; nor, so please you, am I Drusilla Oglander; for you are a Spanish treasure-ship that I have captured on the high seas, while I am the good ship Prudence of Falmouth, who now intendeth to take you as my prize to England."

Timothy seemed to apprehend her purpose, for he calmly yielded himself to her humour.

"An that be the way of it all," quoth he, "then am I well content. But I do pray that England doth lie at no great distance from this spot, for I must get home with my bag of herbs for the which my father is impatiently waiting."

"'Tis but a little way beyond the beeches yonder," explained Drusilla, indicating three tall trees that grew in the midst of a shrubbery at the far end of the little lake. "'Twill take but a few moments to cross the Atlantic Ocean, and then we are there."

She drew him onward for some yards, when suddenly he stopped. She glanced at him in quick alarm.

"Nay," she cried, "you must not sink! You are to be refitted when we reach port, and then, you know, you will be made into an English ship."

But Timothy still hesitated, and even made a movement as if to free himself and run away.

"Why are you sinking?" questioned little Drusilla, to whom his movements seemed to imply that he had been seriously damaged in the late battle. "It cannot be that the shots I fired struck you below the water!"

"'Tis my heart that sinketh," returned Tim. "Prithee, who and what are the men I see lurking under yonder trees?"

Drusilla smiled.

"The one sitting down with his back to the railings," said she, "is the Santa Barbara galleon—a poor hopeless wreck. The other—well, I scarce know what he is at this moment, for he hath been so many things this morning that 'tis hard to remember. But I think he was the mule-train the last time—the mule-train that Drake captured near to Nombre de Dios. Gilbert was Captain Drake. Gilbert doth always like to be Captain Drake whenever 'tis possible, and will never consent to be a Spaniard, unless it be King Philip himself or else the great Marquis of Santa Cruz."

"Master Gilbert can scarce be blamed for his choice," remarked Tim. And, understanding from what the girl had said that there was no reason for the fear that had come over him, he meekly suffered himself to be taken into port in the character of a captive treasure-ship.

CHAPTER II.

THE YOUNG HEIR OF MODBURY.

"I CAN scarce agree with you there," remarked the young man whom Drusilla had described as a poor helpless wreck. He was a thin, sallow-faced, sad-looking individual, with lank black hair, hollow cheeks, and weary, lack-lustre eyes. His ruff was limp and frayed at the edge, and his long scraggy neck rose out of it like the stump of a mushroom that had difficulty in supporting the large head that surmounted it. His sombre black cloth doublet hung loose about his body, and its elbows were worn threadbare. One of his long bony fingers was thrust between the closed leaves of a little book that he held lovingly in his hand. His whole appearance suggested that his habit of life was that of a student, and his discourse certainly did not give the lie to his appearance.

"I can scarce agree with you, Sir Richard," said he in a thin, pipy voice. "Your Ovid is indeed a prince among poets, but in my own poor opinion Virgil is the greater of the two, inasmuch as the epic is greater than the lyric."

"Nay, but I care not to dispute such deep and learned matters with you, Master Pym," returned the other with a yawn that betrayed his weariness of the student's argument. "You are a scholar who knoweth all these things as I do know the ropes of a ship, while I am but a simple seaman, devoid of learning, who hath scarce opened a book since I was a mere stripling. Talk to me of travel if you like, or of Her Majesty's temper, and I will give ear to you, but to books and poets I cry avast!" He shifted his position on the fallen tree upon which he was sitting, and turned his clear gray eyes in the direction of the plantation towards which, a few minutes before, Drusilla had sailed off in quest of adventure. "Ah!" he cried, observing the girl approaching with Timothy Trollope at her heels. "Whom have we here—a prisoner of war? Why, I'll be sworn 'tis the self-same young jackanapes that leapt into Sutton Pool yester-morn to rescue the drunken fisherman that fell in! Dost know the name of him, Master Pym?"

The scholar drew the wide brim of his hat over his brow to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun.

"Ay," he said after a long pause, "I know him. 'Tis one of Barber Trollope's brood—a wild, thoughtless ragamuffin, that doth spend his days in loitering about the quays and picking up the talk of rough mariners. But what, I'd like to know, can Mistress Drusilla mean by thus dragging him hither? I warrant me she hath caught him in some poaching business."

Sir Richard stroked his crisp dark beard and said with a laugh:

"'Tis far more likely she hath taken him for some Barbary corsair, and is bringing him back as a prize. For you must bear in mind, Master Pym, that the maid left us on a treasure-hunting cruise. Ay, I'll be bound 'tis as I say," he added, as Drusilla came into the harbour of the trees. "She hath the rascal in tow, look you, with his belt for hawser."

At this moment a fleet of English merchantmen, in the boyish person of Master Gilbert Oglander, hove into sight in the offing; and Drusilla, relinquishing her prize and sternly bidding Timothy to remain at anchor until her return, ran off to meet her brother.

Timothy respectfully took off his cap and stood mutely in front of the handsome bearded gentleman whom Master Pym had addressed as "Sir Richard", not daring to raise his eyes from the ground.

"How now, boy!" cried Sir Richard in a gruff voice, that seemed to have in it something of the deep roar of the sea waves breaking upon cavernous rocks. "What hath brought thee here? Hast been a-thieving of his lordship's rabbits, quotha?"

"No, please your worship," stammered Timothy, "I have done no manner of harm."

"Then wherefore are you here, a-trespassing on private lands?" demanded Sir Richard.

"Mistress Oglander did arrest me, yonder by the trees," answered Tim. "I was about to go home when she came behind me and seized me, declaring that I was a Spanish treasure-ship. I yielded to her humour, and—"

"Ay," interrupted Sir Richard with a grim smile, "I'll be sworn you yielded—as all Spaniards must when 'tis question of fighting with a well-found English ship such as the one that conquered you. But, prithee, what may it be that you have concealed in yon fat wallet at your back? I'll engage it is a pheasant-bird, or else a brace of plump partridges. Come, my young poacher, open your wallet that I may see!"

He caught the boy by the shoulder and turned him round, grabbing at the bag.

"'Tis but a few poor herbs, your honour, that I have been gathering for my father," explained Tim, opening the bag.

"And what does your father with such wretched weeds?" demanded Sir Richard.

"They are to be made into physic, sir," said the lad.

"Physic?" cried Sir Richard, shaking his head in doubt. "Nay, poison more like! What is thy name, boy?"

"Timothy Trollope, at your honour's service," returned Tim. "Father's a barber-surgeon."

"Ay, a barbarous surgeon truly, if 'twas he that patched up Jan Coppinger's broken skull last week. I'd have made a goodlier job of it myself. And so Timothy is your name, eh? Well, I'll bear it in mind, boy; for 'twas you, if I mistake not, that I saw yester-noon helping to drag tipsy Tom Vercoe out of Sutton Pool. 'Twas a kindly deed, to say the least on't. And look you, Master Timothy, if ever you should take to the notion, as most boys do if I know ought of boyhood, of joining Her Majesty's service on the sea, you have but to acquaint me with it, and I'll be sworn you shall not wait long for a ship. Dost know me?"

Timothy's face brightened as he answered:

"There be few boys in Plymouth town that do not know your worship. You are Sir Richard Grenville that went out to Virginia, and that also fought against the infidels at Lepanto."

The joyous young voice of Drusilla Oglander broke in upon this little conversation.

"Come, Captain Grenville," said she, taking Sir Richard by the arm and dragging him under the shadow of one of the beech-trees. "Y'are standing in the middle of the sea where you are. We are about to play at a great sea-fight, and you are to be the Spanish fleet."

It was strange to see the tall strong man being led about by this little girl and made to do her bidding as if she had been his sovereign queen.

"Even as you list, good my mistress," said he with a docile submission which was hardly to be expected in one who had the reputation of being a cruel and relentless warrior. "I am willing to enact whatsoever part you please; only, if, as I suspect, I am to be the Armada, as you made me on the other occasion when you brought me to such disaster, I do beseech you to excuse me the long voyage round the islands of Orkney, for my limbs are scarce equal to the journey this morning."

"You shall take what part you choose," interposed Gilbert Oglander, standing at his sister's side and glancing up into Sir Richard Grenville's twinkling gray eyes.

Gilbert was a boy of thirteen years old, very agile and active. His hair was very dark, and its darkness made his skin seem all the more fair and clear. In stature he was not very tall for his age, but his limbs were sinewy and strong, and one could see at a glance that he was of gentle birth, that he had lived much of his life in the open air, and that he was well fitted to endure all manner of fatigue.

"You shall take what part you choose," said he.

"Why, then, an that be so," returned Captain Grenville, "I will choose to be Don Hugo de Monçada's great galleass, for then I may lie and rest me on Calais beach and thus be out of the action, as she was when she ran aground."

"Yes," agreed Drusilla; "but first you must be the whole Spanish fleet, anchored in Calais Roads. Master Pym will help you to make a show of numbers, while Gilbert will, of course, be Sir Francis Drake on board the Revenge, and Sir Martin Frobisher on board the Triumph, and whichever other of our English admirals he doth care to be. I am myself to be the lord admiral's flag-ship."

"And, prithee, what ship or squadron of ships doth young Timothy Trollope represent?" questioned Sir Richard Grenville. "Surely you will not scorn so useful an addition to the game?"

"We had best make Timothy enact the part of the English fire-ships," suggested Christopher Pym, smiling as his eyes rested upon the lad's bright red hair. And at his suggestion Drusilla clapped her hands together and cried "Yes, he shall be the fire-ships!"

And she forthwith proceeded to point out to her strangely-assorted playmates how the wide stretch of grass in front of them was to be understood by them all to be the Narrow Seas, how the distant plantation where Timothy had gathered his herbs was to represent the French coast between Calais and Dunquerque, and how the embankment of the fish-pond was to be Calais Roads. The higher ground under the beech-trees where the five were now standing was to be looked upon as the Kentish cliffs.

These matters being arranged to the understanding of all, the Spanish Armada, in the persons of Sir Richard Grenville and Master Christopher Pym, sailed obediently up the English Channel, pursued at no great distance by the English flag-ship and her consorts, who assailed their enemy with round after round of heavy shot, discharged from their chase-guns. There was one very tremendous engagement between Frobisher's Triumph and the Spanish Santa Anna, which presently grew into a general conflict in which many ships were sunk. Then the Spaniards, much crippled in the fray, were permitted to sail on again, only to be again pursued by their persistent foes. The English ships bore down upon them, and then, being within easy range, luffed up and poured their broadsides into the enemy's hulls with relentless fury. But the Armada looked always as formidable as ever, and again and again they formed themselves in line of battle, to endure yet again the prolonged fire of the English guns.

At last the Queen's fleet fell back and allowed the Spaniards to sail on in calm security to their desired refuge in Calais Roads. When, as they imagined, they were at a safe anchorage and hoped to repair the damages of battle (for in truth Sir Richard Grenville had received some surprising buffetings at the hands of Drusilla and Gilbert Oglander, to say nothing of Master Pym, whose wide-brimmed hat lay abandoned in mid-channel), the English ships drew near with the fell purpose of dislodging the enemy and driving them out into the open sea. And when night was supposed to have fallen, the lord-admiral and Sir Francis Drake put their woolly heads together in warlike conference and decided to send forth their fire-ships into the midst of the galleons.

Timothy Trollope received his instructions, and straightway drifted into the bay, waving his hands aloft like leaping flames. His near approach threatened to spread disaster among the ships of Spain, and at a given signal from the San Martin the dons all slipped their anchors, and in a confusion of panic endeavoured to make an escape. In the panic the great galleass of Don Hugo de Monçada ran aground on the sands and there lay basking in the sun, an unconcerned witness of the conflict that ensued between Pym and Trollope, who had now turned Spaniard, on the one side and Drusilla and her brother on the other.

Drusilla was bent upon carrying through the mimic fight to the battle of Gravelines, and, drawing Gilbert apart, she allowed Timothy and Master Pym to sail out into the Channel for some distance before starting in pursuit. It seemed to Sir Richard Grenville as he watched them that there occurred some change in their tactics, for Gilbert Oglander, having made pretence of sinking some half-score of the Armada ships, suddenly drew off and approached a very tall tree that stood alone on a wide expanse of grass. The lad placed his hands on the tree-trunk, looked up into the leafy branches and presently began to climb upward.

"Peradventure he intends to assail the enemy from the tops with musket and arquebus," mused Sir Richard, and he continued to watch his young friend ascending from branch to branch. Up and up he climbed till he reached one of the topmost boughs, and then he lay out upon the stout branch and crept along it towards its more slender end. Suddenly he slipped. For a moment it seemed as if he were about to fall to the ground, some thirty feet below, but he caught the branch under his right arm, and remained there suspended.

Understanding the boy's danger, Captain Grenville quickly rose to his feet and ran towards the tree.

"Hold fast!" he cried as he got to the foot of the tree.

Gilbert raised himself a few inches until he could catch hold of the bough with his second hand, and there he hung, calling aloud for help.

Sir Richard gripped the tree and was about to make the attempt to climb up to the boy's rescue, when his shoulders were seized by a pair of hands, someone leapt upon his back and clambered over him, crushing him down under two heavy boots. When the weight was removed from him he looked up and saw young Timothy Trollope scaling the tree with astonishing speed.

"Help! help! or I shall fall!" cried Gilbert Oglander.

"Hold but another moment," returned Timothy; and ascending to the branch from which Gilbert was hanging he worked his way along it, and, leaning over like a very monkey, caught the lad in his one strong right arm and raised him bodily up to a position of safety.

For some minutes the two lads sat astride the bough facing each other, speaking never a word.

"Certes," cried Gilbert at last, breaking the silence, "'twas a narrow escape that! I was as near as might be to falling."

"In sooth I believe you were," agreed Timothy; "and it had been a goodly fall whichever way you had landed."

"But for your timely help I should have been sorely hurt for a certainty," remarked Gilbert; and then after a brief pause he added: "Prithee, how shall I reward you withal?"

"Nay, I need no reward, and will take none," returned Timothy.

"Yea, but you shall have a suitable recompense; for it hath cost you something as I see," said Gilbert. "Look at your doublet, 'tis torn down the front. And you have scratched your face too."

Timothy examined into his own hurts and said with a careless smile:

"Tut! 'tis nothing. Both the rent and the scratch will easily mend; whereas if your worship had fallen to the ground it must surely have been a matter for the physician, and haply a month's idleness in your bed. And now, so please you, we will, if you are ready, climb down again, for Sir Richard Grenville is calling to you, bidding you tell him if you are hurt."

When the two had got down to the ground again, it was to find that Drusilla had run off to a farther end of the meadow, where a double row of giant trees marked the long avenue leading up from the lodge gates to Modbury Manor. From where he stood Timothy could hear the sound of horses' feet and the jingling of stirrups and harness. It was the hawking party returning from the chase, and not until he saw them among the trees of the avenue did he remember the resolve he had made a little while before, to seek out his lordship's steward and ask him for work in the stables. Turning to Master Gilbert Oglander, who was on the point of following Drusilla, Timothy ventured to say:

"I beg your honour's pardon, but since you were so gracious a moment ago as to offer me a favour in return for the slight help I gave you, I have a boon that I would ask of you."

"Name it," demanded Gilbert.

"Ay, name it, lad," urged Sir Richard Grenville, playfully slapping Tim on his broad back. "Thou'rt a deserving boy, that hath the makings of a man in him, and shalt have whatsoever boon thou dost name. So out with it, and be not over-modest in thy request."

Timothy's eyes rested still upon the handsome young countenance of Master Gilbert Oglander.

"'Tis this that I would crave," said he, "that you would by your favour help me to get work as a stable-boy or a shepherd or a falconer in his lordship your grandfather's service."

Gilbert Oglander nodded and said smilingly:

"Gladly will I do that for you, Master Trollope; ay, and more, for it seemeth to me you are fit for better work than to groom horses or to feed greedy hawks; and, moreover, I have taken somewhat of a fancy to you." He looked aside at Sir Richard Grenville. "What say you, Captain Grenville?" he questioned. "Dost think he'll do in the place of Will Leigh? Will is about to join Her Majesty's service, you know."

Thus appealed to, Sir Richard spoke very highly of Timothy Trollope, and added that he would himself see Lord Champernoun touching the matter. And at this Timothy thanked them both and presently turned on his way back to Plymouth, overjoyed at the new prospect that had so unexpectedly opened out before him.

As he trudged homeward along the leafy lanes he sang over and over again the snatch of a song of the time:

"I would not be a serving-man
To carry the cloak-bag still,
Nor would I be a falconer
The greedy hawks to fill;
But I would be in a good house,
And have a good master too;
And I would eat and drink of the best,
And no work would I do."

It was not many days afterwards that Lord Champernoun, riding into Plymouth, halted at the sign of the Pestle and Mortar and informed the barber-surgeon that his son Timothy was to consider himself engaged as squire and personal attendant to Master Gilbert. His lordship gave instructions that Timothy was to go at once to Silas Quiller, the tailor, to be measured for two suits of the Oglander livery, and that as soon as the lad was fitted-out he was to repair to the manor and to begin his duties.

Those duties were very simple, as Timothy early discovered. He was to act as valet to the young heir of Modbury; to comb his hair in the mornings, keep his wardrobe in good order, attend him on his journeys, and do his bidding in all things. At the first Timothy was very humble, as he deemed it his duty to be; but as the months went on and he acquired some of the manners of the gentlefolk among whom he was placed, he became more familiar with his young master, who treated him more as a companion and a playmate than as a servant. Yet Timothy never overstepped the limits of his position, but was always respectful and submissive and loyal.

CHAPTER III.

THE MAN WITH THE SCARRED CHEEK.

ON a certain afternoon in December, Gilbert Oglander and Timothy Trollope were loitering on the heights of Plymouth Hoe on their way into the town. They were looking out across the Sound, watching the movements of a ship that was drifting inward with the tide. A breeze from off the sea swelled the vessel's worn and mended topsails; she moved with a slow, lazy motion, as if in very weariness. The lads were questioning what manner of ship she might be and whence she had come.

"'Tis an old Hollander putting in for repairs," ventured Gilbert. "I warrant me she hath suffered some damage in the storm of yesternight."

Timothy shook his head, and then, after a short pause, he said:

"No, Master Gilbert, she is no foreigner at all, but one of our own brave English adventurers. Look at the tattered flag waving from the staff on her after-castle. 'Tis the red cross of St. George. And by the decayed and grimy look of her, I'd judge that she hath been on some long and perilous voyage—it may be to far Cathay, or the scorching coasts of Africa, or it may even be to the Western Indies of which we have heard so much."

"An that be so," returned Gilbert as he stood gazing with wondering eyes upon the approaching ship, "methinks there will be some very strange surprising things for us to see and hear when she droppeth anchor in the haven yonder. She is deeply laden, look you. 'Tis the bars of silver in her hold that do weigh her down, or else the heavy chests of gold and precious stones. Ay, 'tis surely from the Spanish Main that she hath come; for now as she beareth round I can e'en see the shining gold-dust clinging to her sides from out her port-holes like flour-drift from out the windows of Modbury Mill."

Timothy smiled incredulously and moved apart from his companion.

"'Tis no gold-dust that you see, my master," said he, "but only the red iron from off her rust-eaten chains. Come, let us walk down unto the harbour, that we may get a nearer view of her and see what manner of voyagers she bringeth home."

They walked together down the grassy slopes. In aspect, as in their natures, they differed one from the other as much as a heavy Flemish horse differs from an agile Arab steed. Timothy looked much the elder, although in truth he was his master's senior by no more than a twelvemonth. Gilbert had much ado to keep pace with his long measured strides, or perhaps it was his own great riding-boots of thick hard leather coming up above his knees which made his steps seem difficult. The strong December wind, blowing from over the Channel, caught his ample cloak, and the garment was forever escaping from his careless hold and flapping outward behind him, assailing his ears or getting twisted about his long sword. As the cloak blew aside from his shoulders it revealed the pink silk slashings of his doublet of russet velvet and the glittering ornaments on his girdle. He wore a little velvet cap, embroidered with gold lace and surmounted with a gallant waving feather which was held in place by a pearl brooch.

Timothy towered a full head and shoulders above him, being indeed almost a man in height and build, with great broad shoulders and big strong hands and muscular arms, and plump cheeks that were as red as ripe Devon apples. But in spite of his great bulk and his somewhat ungainly figure, Tim was nevertheless alert and active when occasion required, as many of his acquaintance were well aware; for at a wrestling bout, at fencing, riding, climbing, swimming, and many other manly exercises, there were few who could excel him. He was dressed very plainly now, as beseemed one whose work it was to serve and to obey. His cap, which was set jauntily on his head of curly red hair, was not of silk or velvet, but simple knitted wool, unadorned with any gay-coloured ribbons or flaunting feathers. He wore no lace ruff about his thick neck, but only a simple white linen collar. His body was covered by a doublet of plain tan-coloured leather; his wide trunks were of fustian, trimmed with cotton braid and gartered below the knee; and he wore low shoes without any spurs. Like his young master, he carried a sword; and he also had in his belt a small dagger. He was well skilled in the use of both these weapons, and during the months that he had passed in Master Oglander's service he had imparted much of this skill to Gilbert.

By the time that the two had got down to the level ground, and had passed through several of the quaint narrow streets leading towards the harbour, the strange ship had sailed far to the eastward of Mill Bay; her men were aloft furling the sails, and she was slowly drifting with the tide into the sheltered basin of Sutton Pool.

Some fishermen and seamen had gathered in groups upon the wharf to watch her as she came nearer, and to make conjectures as to what might be her name and whence she had come. Gilbert Oglander strode into their midst and stood awhile listening to their talk.

"'Tis a full three years since she sailed out of Plymouth Sound," said one of them.

"Ay, and the rest!" declared another. "Why, 'twas in the summer of 1586 that she went out—in the self-same month, if not the same week, that Thomas Cavendish sailed with his three ships to make the voyage round the world, and that, as I do reckon it, must be nigh upon four years and six months; though in truth it seemeth less. But the years do fly amazingly in these busy times!"

"Know you the name of this vessel that is now coming in, Master Whiddon?" asked Gilbert of a brown-faced mariner at his elbow.

"Ay, to be sure, Master Oglander," returned Whiddon. "We do make her out to be the Pearl—one of Sir Walter Raleigh's ships—that went out along with two others upon a voyage of adventure to the Brazil, or some such place. Master Will Marsden, of Plymouth, was her captain; an old playmate of mine own, and a right fortunate seamen in his younger days. Well do I mind how we all envied him when he set out on this same voyage. But alas! by the look of his ship at this moment, and the fact that he hath come home alone and unattended, I much doubt that he hath left the better part of his good fortune behind him. Ah, there be blackamoors aboard of her!"

"Ay," interposed another of the group, who by his apron and his turned-up sleeves was evidently an artisan and a landsman. "And at seaman's work too. A woeful sign, my masters! Where be all the brave men of Devon that set sail in her, I'd like to know? Down among the coral and the shrimps at the bottom of the sea, I suppose, or else toiling in Spanish galleys, imprisoned by the Inquisition, or lying dead with the crows a-picking of their bones out yonder in Panama. 'Tis ever so with these buccaneering cruises. I like them not, for they do ever end with disaster."

"Thou'rt over-quick with thy conjectures, Jack Prynne," said the man named Whiddon. "The craft is short-handed, 'tis true; but how know you that the brave men you speak of have not given up their lives for old England in honest fight against the Spaniards? Had you yourself been as brave as they—God rest 'em!—you would not have taken flight from Plymouth the last week, as you did with the other timid fools, because of a mere idle alarm that the king of Spain was sending over another armada, forsooth. A brave thing, truly, thus to take to your heels. Why, man, I marvel that y'are not ashamed to show your craven face in the town again!"

Jack Prynne stroked his beard, partly hiding his shamed face with his big work-worn hand.

"When we went away," said he, "the town was ill-defended. Sir Francis Drake was absent."

"The more reason why every man should have remained to protect his home and do his duty by his neighbours," returned Whiddon. "Drake cannot well be in two places at once. What astonisheth me is, that you should all have come trooping back the instant you heard that Sir Francis had again taken up his residence in the town. Sure, 'tis a very high compliment to a man when his mere presence among us should inspire such confidence and allay such a general panic."

"There goes her anchor!" cried Timothy Trollope. And as he spoke there was a splash of water at the ship's bow, followed by the familiar rumbling noise of her hempen cable as it tore through the hawse-pipe.

Now that the vessel was close at hand it could be seen that she was very much battered by the storms and conflicts through which she had passed during her long voyaging in distant seas. The lower timbers of her hull were overgrown with barnacles and slimy green weeds. Above the water-line there were many shot-holes, patched up with raw hides, sheets of lead, or rough-hewn balks of wood; and in one place, abaft her main-chains, a cannon-ball could be seen deeply embedded in the stout oak. In place of her original mizzen-mast there was the trunk of a forest tree, with the bark still upon it; and the lateen yard was made of spliced bamboo. Her standing rigging was mended with strands of twisted cow-hide. She was a ship of about a hundred tons burden, built with a high castle at her poop and with bulging sides. Her bows were as round and blunt as the breasts of the noisy sea-birds that floated near her in the harbour, feeding on the garbage thrown from the fishing-boats.

She had not long been at anchor when a boat was put off from her, and was rowed by two men towards the stone-built slip beside which Gilbert Oglander and Timothy Trollope were standing. The boat had four occupants in addition to the two seamen who pulled at the oars. They were a black-bearded, middle-aged man who sat on the stern gunwale, and who seemed by his frequent commands to the rowers to be in authority; a woman, who sat near him; a beardless youth, who was crouching down in the bottom of the boat; and an aged, white-haired man, with a brown sunburned face and a long silvery beard, who was bending forward over the prow as if in desperate eagerness to spring on shore.

As the little craft came yet nearer, Timothy Trollope observed that the passengers seemed to be no less weary and tattered than the ship from which they had just come. The old man at the bow wore no clothing save a ragged canvas shirt and a pair of wide, ill-made trunks. One of the rowers had but a single sleeve to his jerkin, and his hair was long and matted. The woman wore a large black cloak, whose hood was drawn over her head, leaving visible no more of her than her thin olive-coloured face and her sparkling dark eyes. She paid scarcely any regard to what was passing, but sat like an image, gazing stonily before her.

"Ship your oar, Pascoe!" cried the man at the stern. "Pull three more strokes, Mason!"

He rose to his feet as he gave these orders, showing himself to be very tall. None of the men on shore seemed to know him; nor did he greet them, even as a stranger newly arrived from foreign climes might have been expected to do.

The old man at the bow was the first to leap on shore. And, having done so, he fell down upon his knees, reverently pressed his lips upon the stones, and murmured the words:

"Thanks be to God! Thanks be to God!"

Then he stood up beside the boat and held it by the gunwale while the woman and the two other passengers stepped ashore.

Gilbert Oglander paid but small regard to them, little dreaming of the important parts they were destined to play in his life. He only noticed as they passed him that the tall man's otherwise handsome face was marred by an unsightly scar on the right cheek, that the youth seemed to be about sixteen years of age, and that the woman, when she spoke to either of her companions, did so in a foreign tongue.

The youth who had come ashore paused for a moment, tightening his sword-belt, and as he did so he glanced aside at the old man.

"Art going back to the ship, Jacob?" he inquired with seeming carelessness, yet with a look of strange eagerness in his dark eyes as if much depended upon the veteran's answer.

The graybeard slowly shook his head, and the deep-drawn sigh that issued from his lips seemed to Gilbert Oglander to betoken a whole world of past troubles and present gratitude.

"Wherefore should I go back, Master Philip?" said he in a husky voice. "Have I not had enough of the pestilent old hulk, think you? I have done all that was needed of me, I trow; and since, as you well know, I did but engage to work my passage home, there be no wages due to me and we are quits. As to my worldly belongings," he added with a hollow, uneasy laugh as he rested his bony hand upon the leathern bag that hung at his side, "this wallet containeth all my chattels and goods. Ay, all that I am worth in the world. And little enough, you'll be saying, as the sole outcome of all my perils and wanderings. Howbeit," he went on, not heeding that the young man had already passed beyond hearing and was continuing his way up the slip, "there's but small use in complaining. And after all, God hath been truly merciful in that He hath brought me safely back to my dear native land. Sure 'tis worth all my twenty-three years of voyaging to be back once more in Plymouth town and to again set foot on English ground!"

"GOD HATH BEEN TRULY MERCIFUL IN THAT HE HATH BROUGHT ME SAFELY BACK"

A gust of cold wind blew round one of the stone piers of the wharf near which he lingered. He shivered slightly, and drew his ragged canvas shirt closer about his bare chest and neck. Then his moist blue eyes surveyed the group of men who now stood apart watching the boat returning to the ship.

"I don't see none o' my old friends among you, my masters," said he, looking from one to the other. "You'm all strangers to me. And peradventure I am as great a stranger to yourselves. But the time hath been when I was as well known in Plymouth as the tower of St. Andrew's church yonder." A forced, unnatural smile flitted about the parched blue lips as he added, addressing no one in particular: "Jacob Hartop is my name—Jacob Hartop that went out with John Hawkins in the year 1567, and that hath now comehome after three-and-twenty years of foreign travel and fighting and slavish toil."

He held out his hand to grasp that of one of the older men who stood near. As he did so Timothy Trollope noticed that his wrist bore an indented mark upon it, as if it had been too tightly clasped by a bracelet. Several of the bystanders now shook hands with him.

"Thou'rt welcome home, friend Hartop," said one.

"God give you peace and joy, my master!" said another.

"And may you never need to wander from England's shores again!" said a third.

Captain Whiddon then stepped forward, and said he:

"Be you related to young George Hartop that fell in the great fight against the Invincible Armada of Spain?"

Jacob Hartop stared blankly before him. It was evident that he knew naught of the great fight referred to. He was about to answer when the touch of a hand on his thin bare arm caused him to turn suddenly round, and he stood face to face with Gilbert Oglander.

"Thou'rt thinly clad, and the wind blows cold," said Gilbert as he took off his cloak and spread it over the ancient traveller's shoulder. "I pray you take this cloak."

The old man drew back.

"Nay, I can take no such goodly gift from one who doth owe me no manner of kindness," he declared, attempting to remove the garment. "Believe me, I am not so cold but that a walk and a flagon of ale will warm me." But seeing that the offer was seriously meant he relented, and, fixing his tearful eyes upon Gilbert, he said: "Now, prithee, my gallant young sir, what might be your honour's name? Tell me, so that I may bear it in memory, and think of you with the gratitude that I do truly feel."

Gilbert Oglander made a light pretence of not having heard the question, and, followed by Timothy, he strode gaily up to the head of the slip.

The tall man with the scar on his cheek was at this moment crossing the muddy roadway with his two companions towards a house with heavy overhanging gables, that stood at the corner of one of the alleys. It was a tavern, as could be known by the fact that the window lattices were painted red, and it bore the sign of the Three Flagons. The stranger had to bend down his head as he entered the low porchway.

"Truly a man may be known by the hostelry he chooseth," remarked Timothy Trollope as he saw the woman's skirts disappear behind the door-post. "I had thought by their favour that these people were of high station and good breeding, and that by their great haste to quit their ship they were intent upon travelling yet farther into the country, haply to some famous old estate. But 'tis plain to see that they do intend to abide at the humble Three Flagons. 'Tis a cheap inn and an ill-managed. Nevertheless, I should engage that they will have better comfort withal than on board the cranky old Pearl. Think you that the man with the wounded cheek is her captain?"

Gilbert shrugged his shoulders.

"A ship's master would scarcely be the first to quit her on coming into port," said he; "although, indeed, it may well be that the man's gallantry hath brought him ashore thus speedily in his wish to place the woman and her son in decent lodgings."

"And, prithee, wherefore do you so readily make up your mind that the lad is her son?" inquired Timothy.

"For the simple and plain reason that her eyes and his have got the self-same foreign look in them," answered Gilbert. "But wherefore should we discuss these people? Foreigners as they are, they can be of no earthly interest to us, now or hereafter. As to the ship, well, had we but gone aboard of her we might have learned something of more value touching the adventures she hath gone through; but as the matter stands, Tim, we have but wasted a good half-hour of time, and shall not now be home until after dark."

CHAPTER IV.

AT THE SIGN OF THE PESTLE AND MORTAR.

ON the afternoon upon which the good ship Pearl dropped anchor in Sutton Pool, Peter Trollope was less busy than it was his wont to be at that time of day. His one customer since noon had been a poor farrier's apprentice, who had come in to have an aching tooth pulled out—an operation which had occupied the barber-surgeon scarcely a minute, and earned for him the total sum of twopence. But he had seen the ship enter the harbour, and knew well that sooner or later some of her crew would pay him a visit. In the meantime he engaged himself with two large, wild-looking birds, which he kept imprisoned in a dark box on a shelf near the window. He had just been feeding them with raw meat and was closing the lid of the box, when the shop-door was flung open and his son Timothy strode within, making a great clatter with his sword as he dragged the weapon behind him along the stone floor.

Tim threw his cap upon the oak settle at the farther end of the room, seated himself in an easy chair before the fire, and stretched out his legs at full length in front of him with all the freedom of a full-grown man. The bull-dog, which had been asleep in one of the warm corners of the ingle, crept out yawning and wagging his stump of a tail by way of greeting.

"So thou hast at last thought fit to come in and see if we be all alive still?" said Peter in an agrieved tone, as he regarded his stalwart son. "Thou'rt a dutiful son to thy poor parents, in all conscience. 'Tis shameful of thee, thus to neglect us, Tim. Thou'rt so vastly taken up with all the great folks at Modbury—my lord this, and my lady that, and all the rest of them—that thou dost seem to forget thine own flesh and blood. 'Twas only yesterday, as I live, that I saw thee passing by my very door without so much as looking in to give me a good day! Zounds, boy, 'tis most unseemly!"

Timothy stroked the dog's ears without raising his eyes to his justly-offended father.

"I had been bidden to go quickly on my errand, father," he explained, "and I dared not tarry by the way. I might not even have come in at this present time to see thee, but that my master hath given me leave while he goes to the end of the town to take a message from my lord to Sir Francis Drake."

"Methinks Master Oglander might have saved himself a journey," remarked the barber; "for 'tis only a half-hour since that I saw Sir Francis passing the door here, on his way, as I do believe, to Modbury Manor; for he wore his new damson silk cape with the gold-lace trimmings, and you may be sure by that token that he was going to where there will be women's eyes to look upon him."

Peter had approached the fireplace, and now stood with his back to the crackling logs, facing his son.

"I am sorry," he continued in a more cheery tone, "that Master Gilbert did not chance to come in with thee, Tim. I have wished to see him these many days past on a matter of business. I have here a pair of fine young goshawks that he might be willing to buy from me."

"Show them to me," demanded Timothy, rising from his chair. "If they be goshawks indeed, and in goodly condition, I doubt not that he will gladly buy them. Let me see them. I shall soon know if they be of any use. But I will wager you ere I set eyes on them that they are no more fit to fly against a pheasant than a mere sparrow-hawk might be."

"Nay, I cannot myself swear to them," said the barber, crossing to the shelf near the window, and proceeding to open the box, "for I have not been brought up among gentlefolks as thou hast been, and have never in all my life been present at a hawking party. But the lad who left them in my keeping did positively declare them to be of the true goshawk breed, and he bade me sell them for him if perchance I might find a likely customer." He threw back the lid of the box. "Here they be," said he.

Timothy looked over his father's shoulder at the birds. Then he thrust his gloved hand deep into the box. There was a noisy flapping of wings and a harsh rasping screech. Tim brought forth his hand with one of the hawks perched upon it. He held it aloft, examining the bird with critical eye.

"He is somewhat short i' the neck and flabby of flesh," he remarked, with the air of one who was a judge of such points, "but the head is of good shape, and the eyes are clear. He is fierce enough too, o' my conscience. Here, put him back, lest he bite me! And now," he added, when the bird was restored to its prison, "what want you for the pair of them? No cozening, mind you. I will not have my master overcharged even by my own father."

The barber-surgeon named the sum at which he was willing to sell the birds, and Tim at once proceeded to beat down the price to half the amount. Neither noticed in the midst of their dispute that a customer had entered the shop.

"Hi there, master barber!" cried the new-comer. "Cease your wrangling, and come and cut me my hair! Dost think I am going to wait for you all night?"

"Presently, your worship—presently," answered Peter, snatching up his scissors and comb. Then, turning to his son, he added: "Thy mother is laid abed with her old illness, Tim; get thee upstairs to her for awhile."

Timothy obediently disappeared through the door at the back of the shop, stumbling up the stairs with noisy feet and equally noisy sword; while his father, snipping his scissors merrily in his right hand and thus making a show of being exceedingly busy, offered his customer a chair where the light from the window might fall upon him.

He was a stranger to Peter Trollope, and therefore, it must be assumed, a stranger to Plymouth also. His long, untidy hair and beard, his bronzed skin, and, indeed, his whole appearance, betokened that he had newly come off the sea. His doublet, which had once been velvet, was worn threadbare; the colour, whatever it may originally have been, had suffered by the salt water, and was now an indistinct gray, stained here and there with dark-brown patches, which Peter surmised to be the stains of hardened blood. It was plain to see that the man was in some sort a warrior as well as a traveller.

While the barber was spreading a white napkin about him to protect his clothing from the clippings of hair which must presently fall from the scissors, he looked into the stranger's face, and perceived that the right cheek was marred by an old wound—a long straight wound like the cut of a knife, beginning below the eye and ending somewhere in the midst of his thick black beard.

"Well?" quoth the stranger, seeing that the barber hesitated to make a start. "Cut me my hair, I say."

"I am ready to execute your worship's will," announced Peter with a low bow, as he snipped his scissors. "Prithee, sir, will you have your worship's hair cut after the Italian manner, short and round, and then flounced with the curling-irons, or like a Spaniard's, long at the ears and curled like to the two ends of a new moon; or will you be Frenchified with a love-lock down to your shoulder, whereon you may hang your lady's favour? The English cut is base in these days of fashion, and gentlemen scorn it. Speak the word, sir; and howsoever you would have it, it shall be done."

"Nay, a plague on your love-locks and curling-irons," the stranger cried impatiently. "Do it as you please, but howsoever you do it, do it quickly. I know naught of your strange fashions and monstrous manners of haircutting. I have been absent from England so many years, that now when I come back I am as one who hath risen from out his grave to find all things changed."

"In truth, sir," observed the barber, "your worship will indeed find many changes, alike in government and in manners, if so be your absence hath been so long as you do say. Her Majesty's ministers and counsellors, indeed, have changed as often as the seasons. But the Queen herself, God bless her, is yet with us; so England is merry England still, and long may it so remain!"

Peter was now busy at work shearing his customer's plenteous crop of tangled hair.

"And how many years in all did your worship say that you had been abroad?" he ventured presently to inquire.

"More years than I care to number," was the somewhat curt reply.

"Ah!" responded Peter. "Then, sir, you had no hand in the glorious defeat of the great Armada of Spain? Haply your worship was in some far-distant country at that great time?"

The stranger shifted his position in his chair. His fingers moved restlessly.

"Haply I was," he answered. "But had I chanced to be at the very extremities of the earth, methinks I should still have heard rumour of the matter; for wherever there be Spaniards and wherever there be Englishmen, they are alike disposed to boast of their own prowess on that occasion. And from neither the one nor the other is it possible to arrive at the simple truth."

"The simple truth is simply this, your honour," returned Peter Trollope, with a proud smile, "that the Spaniards, despite their greater ships and their greater army of soldiers, were utterly routed and defeated." And the gossiping barber proceeded to tell the whole story to his listening customer as he continued with his clipping.

At length, having fairly come to the beard, he broke off in his wordy narrative and requested to know if his worship would have his beard cut short and to a peak like Sir Francis Drake's, or broad and round like a spade. "Or shall I shave it off," said he, "and leave only your worship's moustachios?" But he had scarcely made the last suggestion when his eye was once more caught by the cut on the man's cheek. "I would advise that the beard be left as it is," he said, "for it doth help to hide the wound upon your face. Although, indeed, there be many men in Plymouth who would be mightily proud to display so honourable a scar, for I doubt not your worship came by it in some desperate battle against our enemies of Spain."

It was at this moment that Timothy returned into the shop. He overheard his father's remark, and noticed that for some reason the stranger winced, as though he were far from being proud of the old wound.

"I do perceive that 'tis the cut from a sword," added the barber-surgeon, looking at the scar more closely. "I trust, for the honour of England, that you slew the rascal who gave it you."

"'Tis no sword-cut, but a wound from an Indian's arrow, shot at me from ambush," declared the traveller; and there was a curious tone in his voice—a tone which seemed to indicate that he was in reality giving only a half explanation, or perhaps even a totally false one. In any case he hastened very plainly to change the subject.

"You named one Francis Drake just now," said he. "Peradventure you can inform me if he be still alive?"

"Alive? Ay, that he is! Alive and well, the Lord be praised! and in Plymouth town at this present time—ah! I beg your worship's pardon. Perhaps I caught your cheek with the point of my scissors?"

The stranger had given a slight nervous start, and a look of displeasure if not of actual annoyance had come into his dark eyes.

"In Plymouth at this present time?" he repeated. And then he muttered some words in a foreign tongue, which neither Timothy nor his father could comprehend.

"Had you chanced to come in but an hour earlier you might even have encountered him," remarked the barber, "for he passed by this very door, and returned my salutation most graciously, as, indeed, he doth always do, whenever I come nigh him; for he is by no means proud, I promise you, for all that he hath done more for England than any other living man. But I am talking thus while it may be that your worship doth know him far better than I—while it may even be that you are his personal friend."

The man with the scarred cheek made no response to this last remark, but only leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and knitting his brows. He remained silent until Trollope had clipped his beard to a satisfactory shape and was giving it the final touches. Then the warrior looked up suddenly and said with curious earnestness, as though he were seeking an answer to a most important question:

"There dwelt in the neighbourhood of Plymouth a score of years ago or so, a certain nobleman by name Baron Champernoun. Canst tell me, master barber, if there be any of his lordship's family still dwelling in these parts?"

Peter Trollope glanced aside at his son and smiled. Timothy strolled slowly towards the window and seated himself near the two goshawks, whence he could watch the stranger's face.

"The name is passing well known to all men of Devon," answered Peter as he surveyed his workmanship with excusable pride. "And Lord Champernoun himself—the only Lord Champernoun that I have known—still dwelleth at his family estate nigh unto the village of Modbury. He is stricken in years and passing feeble; but clear in his mind withal, and as excellent and worthy a Christian gentleman as you will find in all the land. As to his lordship's family, sir, 'tis small in number. He had two sons, your worship, to wit, Edmund Oglander and Jasper; for Oglander is the family name, you must know, Champernoun being but the baron's title, bestowed upon the head of the family in Henry the Fifth's time, and—"

"Ay, I wot well that there were two sons," interrupted the stranger, brusquely, "Edmund and Jasper, you say. Ay, and what of them, I pray you?"

"They both are dead," returned Peter Trollope. "Both lost their lives in distant lands. The Honourable Edmund Oglander, my lord's eldest son, went over to the Netherlands some five years agone, and fell in the battle of Zutphen—the same engagement in which the virtuous and gallant Sir Philip Sidney received his death wound from a Spanish bullet. The younger son, Jasper, died of a fever or some such pestilent mischance out in the Western Indies, whither he had gone to seek adventure and fortune in one of John Hawkins' ships. His lordship grieved not overmuch for the loss of Jasper, 'tis said; nor do I marvel at it, for surely a greater scamp and reprobate than young Jasper Oglander hath never lived."

"And both are dead, eh?" mused the traveller in a strange calculating tone. "Ods life! and who would have thought it? Why, then," he presently added, "it must be that the old baron is now quite alone in the world, and hath none of his own kin to follow him in his title and estates? Sooth, I do pity him to be thus left desolate in his old age, with never a son or a son's son to carry on his honoured name!"

"'Tis doubtless a sore grief to his lordship that his son Edmund surviveth not to enjoy his great inheritance," remarked Peter Trollope, "albeit Master Edmund gave up his life in a good and noble cause, and therein Lord Champernoun hath assuredly a sweet consolation. But if his lordship hath no longer a son, there is, after all, his grandson—a bright and gallant young gentleman, and a worthy heir to so vast an heritage."

The stranger raised his heavy eyebrows in quick surprise.

"So-ho?" quoth he; "a grandson, eh? Prithee, what might be the fortunate stripling's age?"

The barber turned to his son, who was at that moment looking out through the window at a strangely-dressed negro woman who was crossing the road in company with a seaman in the direction of the Three Flagons.

"Tim, what might be Master Gilbert's age?" he asked of the lad.

"Fourteen years, mayhap," answered Timothy. "And speaking of Master Gilbert, father, that remindeth me that I am to meet him at the market-cross at four by the clock; so I must tarry here no longer. I will let him know what you have said concerning the goshawks." And with that he took up his cap, wished his father a "God speed you!" and strolled out into the street.