“You were up the Plate with Cabot?” said Cary, after a pause. “Do you mind the fair lady Miranda, Sebastian de Hurtado's wife?”
“What! her that was burnt by the Indians? Mind her? Do you mind the sun in heaven? Oh, the beauty! Oh, the ways of her! Oh, the speech of her! Never was, nor never will be! And she to die by they villains; and all for the goodness of her! Mind her? I minded naught else when she was on deck.”
“Who was she?” asked Amyas of Cary.
“A Spanish angel, Amyas.”
“Humph!” said Amyas. “So much the worse for her, to be born into a nation of devils.”
“They'em not all so bad as that, yer honor. Her husband was a proper gallant gentleman, and kind as a maid, too, and couldn't abide that De Solis's murderous doings.”
“His wife must have taught it him, then,” said Amyas, rising. “Where did you hear of these black swans, Cary?”
“I have heard of them, and that's enough,” answered he, unwilling to stir sad recollections.
“And little enough,” said Amyas. “Will, don't talk to me. The devil is not grown white because he has trod in a lime-heap.”
“Or an angel black because she came down a chimney,” said Cary; and so the talk ended, or rather was cut short; for the talk of all the groups was interrupted by an explosion from old John Hawkins.