“Pardon me, senor; but no one has deprived you of your sword,” said Winter.
“I don't wish to pain you, sir,” said Amyas, “but I fear that we were both careless enough to leave it behind last night.”
A flash passed over the Spaniard's face, which disclosed terrible depths of fury and hatred beneath that quiet mask, as the summer lightning displays the black abysses of the thunder-storm; but like the summer lightning it passed almost unseen; and blandly as ever, he answered:
“I can forgive you for such a neglect, most valiant sir, more easily than I can forgive myself. Farewell, sir! One who has lost his sword is no fit company for you.” And as Amyas and the rest departed, he plunged into the inner tent, stamping and writhing, gnawing his hands with rage and shame.
As Amyas came out on the battery, Yeo hailed him:
“Master Amyas! Hillo, sir! For the love of Heaven, tell me!”
“What, then?”
“Is his lordship stanch? Will he do the Lord's work faithfully, root and branch: or will he spare the Amalekites?”
“The latter, I think, old hip-and-thigh,” said Amyas, hurrying forward to hear the news from Raleigh, who appeared in sight once more.
“They ask to depart with bag and baggage,” said he, when he came up.