Clerivault, sticking one arm akimbo, bent his brows on the speaker.
‘Cry you mercy, Sir,’ said he: ‘a lover of his country had no need to ask.’
‘You think he was a traitor to his country?’
‘I think it.’
‘How?’
‘He played for the party that played for Spain to wreck the expedition and render it abortive. Blackest of traitors, that—a professing friend in the house he plots to ruin.’
‘He may have thought honestly he served England best by thwarting Drake in his ambitions.’
‘What ambitions? God’s ’slid! For himself, or to drag his dear land for ever from under the heel of arrogant Spain, where those, the small-souled and timid, the dastards and time-servers, would have held her prostrate for their own safety’s sake? Thank God for Drake, I say, who let no claims of love or learning move him in his judgment on a villain; who pierced through all specious arguments holding tolerance of wrong and insult for the truer patriotism, and had the wit and resolution to cut the canker out before it spread. Such men for me in war; and England’s scorn on those who would keep her mean and safe!’
‘Well, I am well answered,’ said Brion, with a laugh; and he rose to his feet, as Raleigh rose also to clap the enthusiast on the shoulder.
‘Well spoken,’ cried the soldier. ‘Art a rare fellow. When another expedition haps, to follow in Drake’s footsteps and take thy master with it, I shall look to see thee in his company’—and, with a smiling nod to the patriot, he took Brion’s arm and walked the boy away.