The man stood quite silent and unmoved for a minute or two; and then said quietly to himself, in Spanish, “That which is, is best.”
“You speak Spanish?” asked Amyas, more and more interested.
“I had need to do so, young sir; I have been five years in the Spanish Main, and only set foot on shore two days ago; and if you will let me have speech of Sir Richard, I will tell him that at which both the ears of him that heareth it shall tingle; and if not, I can but go on to Mr. Cary of Clovelly, if he be yet alive, and there disburden my soul; but I would sooner have spoken with one that is a mariner like to myself.”
“And you shall,” said Amyas. “Steward, we will have this man in; for all his rags, he is a man of wit.” And he led him in.
“I only hope he ben't one of those Popish murderers,” said the old steward, keeping at a safe distance from him as they entered the hall.
“Popish, old master? There's little fear of my being that. Look here!” And drawing back his rags, he showed a ghastly scar, which encircled his wrist and wound round and up his fore-arm.
“I got that on the rack,” said he, quietly, “in the Inquisition at Lima.”
“O Father! Father! why didn't you tell us that you were a poor Christian?” asked the penitent steward.
“Because I have had naught but my deserts; and but a taste of them either, as the Lord knoweth who delivered me; and I wasn't going to make myself a beggar and a show on their account.”
“By heaven, you are a brave fellow!” said Amyas. “Come along straight to Sir Richard's room.”