intimation that a strange, foreign-looking man, apparently a sailor, stood without, craving speech with Mistress Saint Leger.

Mrs Saint Leger’s apprehensions with regard to the safety of Hubert, her elder son, temporarily allayed by George’s optimism, were quick to respond to the slightest hint or suggestion of disaster; the mere mention, therefore, of a man, foreign-looking and of sailorly aspect, seeking speech with her, and especially at such an untimely hour, was sufficient to re-awaken all her unformed fears into full activity. Her lips blanched and a look of terror leapt into her eyes as she sprang to her feet, regarding the somewhat stolid Lucy as though the latter were some apparition of ill omen.

“A sailor, say you, strange, and foreign-looking?” she gasped. “What for mercy’s sake can such a man want with me at this time of night? Did you ask the man his name?”

“No, ma’am, I—I—didn’t,” stammered the maid, astonished at her mistress’s unusual agitation, and afraid that in omitting to make the enquiry she had been guilty of some terrible oversight; “he said—he—”

But at this point George intervened. To him, as to his mother, the circumstance had at once conveyed a suggestion of ominousness, a hint of possible evil tidings. Like his mother, he had risen to his feet as the thought of what this visit might mean dawned upon him. But, unlike Mrs Saint Leger, he was accustomed to act quickly in the presence of sudden alarms, and now he laid his hand reassuringly upon his mother’s shoulder, as he said soothingly:

“There, there, sit you down, mother; there’s nought to be frightened about, I’ll warrant. Sit you down, again; and I’ll go out and speak to the fellow. Maybe ’tis but some sneaking, snivelling beggar-man who, believing you to be alone here, hopes to terrify you into giving him a substantial alms.”

So saying, with another reassuring pat upon his mother’s shoulder, the lad stalked out of the room, pushing the bewildered maid before him, and made his way to the front door, where Mrs Saint Leger, acutely listening, presently heard him in low converse with the stranger. The conversation continued for a full ten minutes, and then Mrs Saint Leger’s apprehensions were sharpened by hearing footsteps—her son’s and another’s—approaching the room in which she sat. A moment later the door was flung open, and George, pale beneath his tan, re-appeared, ushering in a thick-set, broadly-built man of medium height, whose long, unkempt hair and beard, famine-sharpened features, and ragged clothing told an unmistakable tale of privation and suffering.

“Mother,” said George—and as he spoke his lips quivered slightly in spite of his utmost efforts to keep them steady—“this man is Robert Dyer of Cawsand, one of the crew of the Judith, Captain Drake’s ship, just arrived from the Indies, and he brings us bad news—not the worst, thank God,” he interjected hurriedly as he noted Mrs Saint Leger’s sudden access of pallor—“but bad enough for all that, and it is necessary that you should hear it. The expedition has been a failure, thanks to Spanish treachery; the loss to the English has been terribly heavy, and several of the men are missing.”

For a few moments the poor distracted mother strove vainly to speak; then, clutching George’s arm tightly, she moaned: “Well, why do you pause, George? Tell me the worst, I pray you. I can bear it. Do not keep me in suspense. Do you wish me to understand that Hubert is killed—or is he among the missing? He must be one or the other, I know, or he would be here now to tell his own story.”

“He is a prisoner in the hands of the Spaniards, mother,” answered George. “But be of good cheer,” he continued, as Mrs Saint Leger staggered like one struck and he sprang to her assistance—“sit you down, mother, and let Dyer here tell us his story. I have only just heard the barest outline of it. Perhaps when we have heard it all it may not seem so bad. And don’t you fear for Hubert, dearie; ’tis true that the Spaniards have got him, but they won’t dare to hurt him, be you assured of that; and likely enough he will have escaped by this time. Now, Dyer, come to an anchor, man, and tell us all that befell. And while you’re talking we’ll have some supper prepared for you.”

“Well, madam, and Mr Garge, there ain’t so very much to tell,” answered Dyer, seating himself in the chair which Saint Leger had indicated. “Of course you do both know—all Plymouth knows—that we sailed away from this very port a year ago come the second o’ last October. Six ships strong, we was, well manned, and an abundance o’ munitions o’ war of every kind, even to shore-artillery. And we had Cap’n John Hawkins for our admiral and Frank Drake for our pilot, so what more could a body want?

“We made a very good passage to the Canary Islands, which was our first rondyvoo; and from there, a’ter we’d wooded and watered afresh, and set up our rigging, we sailed for the Guinea coast. On our way there, avore ever we got so far south as Cape Blanc, we captured a Portingal caravel; pickin’ up another of ’em a little way to the nor’ard of Cape Verde. This here last one was called the Grace a Dios, she were a very fine new ship of a hunderd and fifty ton—and we kept ’em both because, bein’ light-draught ships, the admiral knowed they’d be useful for goin’ in over bar on the Coast, where the mouths of the rivers be always shallow.

“Well, in due time—I forget the exact date, now—we arrived on the Coast, and there we stayed for a matter o’ three months, huntin’ blacks and Portingals; goin’ into the rivers in the caravels, landin’ parties, attackin’ native villages, and makin’ prisoners o’ all the strongest and most likely-lookin’ men and women—with a good sprinklin’ o’ childer, too—and cuttin’ out the Portingal caravels wherever we found ’em. Ah! that work o’ boardin’ and cuttin’ out the Portingals! It was fine and excitin’, and suited Cap’n Drake and Mr Saint Leger a sight better than nagur huntin’. They was always the first to come forward for such work, and never was two men so happy as they was when news was brought of a caravel bein’ near at hand.

“Three months we stayed on that there terrible Guinea coast, and durin’ that time we got together over five hunderd nagurs, besides takin’, plunderin’, and burnin’ more than a dozen caravels. Then, wi’ pretty nigh half of our company down wi’ fevers and calentures taken on the Coast and in the rivers, we all sailed for the Spanish Main. A matter o’ seven weeks it took us to cross to t’other side o’ the world, although we had fair winds and fine weather all the way, as is usual on the voyage from Africa to the Indies. Then we arrived at a lovely island called Margarita, one o’ the Spaniards’ Indian possessions, where I was told they find pearls. Here we found several storehouses crammed with food of all sorts and great casks o’ wine intended for distribution among the ports of the Spanish Main; and here our admiral decided to re-victual the fleet. And mun did, too, in spite of the objections o’ the Spaniards, who vowed that they had no food to spare. We took from ’em all that we wanted, but we paid for it in good Portingal goold, seein’ that we was no pirates, but good honest traders.

“Then we sailed westward again, past La Guaira and the great wall of mountains that tower aloft behind it far into the deep blue sky. On the third day after leavin’ Margarita we sailed into as snug a little harbour as you’d wish to see. And there we stayed for a matter o’ two months, landin’ our sick and our blacks, clearin’ out our ships’ holds, cleanin’, careenin’, scrapin’, paintin’, overhaulin’, and refittin’ generally, the blacks helpin’ us willin’ly enough when we made ’em understand what we wanted done.

“By the time that we’d a done everything that we wanted to,