“I’ faith, John Nevil, I know not why I am here, seeing that your counsel has been given us, unless it be that you have more wisdom than most, and may somewhat sweeten this course which, mark you!  I stand ready to take, or sweet or bitter, if thereby the Queen is best served....  The officer whom this Governor sent out days ago in search of these wealthy fugitives from the town—­these rich people who starve on gold and silver dishes—­hath returned with some report or other as to the treasure.  What think you if at this coming feast—­”

Said Nevil abruptly:  “Let us not speak of such matters here, Frank!  I am fully dressed; let us go into the air!”

Drake stared.  “And be observed of all that we hold counsel together!  What’s wrong with the room?” Glancing narrowly from wall to wall, he came suddenly to a realization of the presence of a third person—­a stranger, dressed in some dark, rich stuff, who stood with folded arms against the door which he had closed behind him.  Distinction of form, distinction of the quiet face, distinction of white hair, so incongruous and yet, strangely enough, the last and stateliest touch of all—­after a moment of startled scrutiny Drake leaned forward, keen eyes beneath shaggy brows, one hand tugging at his beard.  “Who are you, sir?” he asked.

Nevil interposed.  “He is under my command—­a volunteer for whom I alone am responsible.”

The figure against the door advanced a pace or two.  “I am Mortimer Ferne, Sir Francis Drake.”

There was a pause, while Drake, staring as at one just risen from the dead, got slowly to his feet.

“Long ago,” continued the apparition, “we had some slight acquaintance—­but now ’tis natural that you know me not....  I pray you to believe me that until you drew near the window I thought Sir John Nevil alone in the room; moreover, that I have heard no word of counsel, saving only the word itself.”

“I hear you, sir,” answered Drake, icily.  “Fair words and smooth—­oh, very courtier-like words!  Oh, your very good assurance!—­but I choose my own assurance, which dwells in the fact that naught has been said to which the Spaniard is not welcome!”

Nevil drew in his breath with a grieved, impatient sigh, but Sir Mortimer stood motionless, nor seemed to care to find answering words.  The blood had mounted to his brow, but the eyes which gazed past the speaker into the magnificent heart of the dawn were very clear, very patient.  Moments passed while Drake, the great sea-captain, sat, striking his booted foot upon the floor, looking from Nevil, who had regained his usual calm, to the man with whom oblivion had no more to do.  Suddenly he spoke: 

“You are he who in the guise of a Spanish friar hath nursed our sick?  Give you thanks!...  Which of your ships, John Nevil, do you make over to this—­this gentleman?”

Nevil, drawing himself up, would have answered with haughtiness, but with a quick gesture of entreaty Ferne himself took the word.