“Art-magic, art-magic!” moaned the bishop.
“Your holiness! It is scarcely prudent to speak thus here,” said the commandant, who was nevertheless much of the same opinion.
“Why, you said so yourself, last night, senor, about the taking of Cartagena.”
The commandant blushed, and stammered out somewhat—“That it was excusable in him, if he had said, in jest, that so prodigious and curious a valor had not sprung from mortal source.”
“No more it did, senor,” said Jack Brimblecombe, stoutly: “but from Him who taught our 'hands to war, and our fingers to fight.'”
The commandant bowed stiffly. “You will excuse me, sir preacher: but I am a Catholic, and hold the cause of my king to be alone the cause of Heaven. But, senor captain, how came you thither, if I may ask? That you needed no art-magic after you came on board, I, alas! can testify but too well: but what spirit—whether good or evil, I ask not—brought you on board, and whence? Where is your ship? I thought that all Drake's squadron had left six months ago.”
“Our ship, senor, has lain this three years rotting on the coast near Cape Codera.”
“Ah! we heard of that bold adventure—but we thought you all lost in the interior.”
“You did? Can you tell me, then, where the senor governor of La Guayra may be now?”
“The Senor Don Guzman de Soto,” said the commandant, in a somewhat constrained tone, “is said to be at present in Spain, having thrown up his office in consequence of domestic matters, of which I have not the honor of knowing anything.”