“If it were not for you, mother, would God that the Armada would come!”
“What, and ruin England?”
“No! Curse them! Not a foot will they ever set on English soil, such a welcome would we give them. If I were but in the midst of that fleet, fighting like a man—to forget it all, with a galleon on board of me to larboard, and another to starboard—and then to put a linstock in the magazine, and go aloft in good company—I don't care how soon it comes, mother, if it were not for you.”
“If I am in your way, Amyas, do not fear that I shall trouble you long.”
“Oh, mother, mother, do not talk in that way! I am half-mad, I think, already, and don't know what I say. Yes, I am mad; mad at heart, though not at head. There's a fire burning me up, night and day, and nothing but Spanish blood will put it out.”
“Or the grace of God, my poor wilful child! Who comes to the door?—so quickly, too?”
There was a loud hurried knocking, and in another minute a serving-man hurried in with a letter.
“This to Captain Amyas Leigh with haste, haste!”
It was Sir Richard's hand. Amyas tore it open; and “a loud laugh laughed he.”
“The Armada is coming! My wish has come true, mother!”