Muffled in a surcoat of scarlet cloth trimmed with sables, King James came on deck as the vessels passed Tents-muir Point, and all the seamen took off their bonnets, while the drummer beat a march, and the arquebussiers gave a profound salute.
"I feel now more keenly than ever how hollow is all this pomp of royalty," said he, as he walked up the poop with the admiral, "and how paltry the inheritance of pride! The poorest archer or pikeman in any of my castles is happier than I, who to-day am called a king. Believe me, admiral," he continued, sadly, "if my death would be a bond of peace between my divided subjects, I could die happily!"
"And let those rapscallions get the weathergage of you? No, no—I would never die while I could live—never sink while I could swim, and that I consider good salt-water philosophy. Yet when the death-watch is piped, doubt not, your majesty, that old Andrew Wood will be found at his post, though he would be sorry to strike his flag before he had brought a few of these traitors up all standing at the bar of Divine Justice. Your majesty is only half my age—and to think of dying——"
"Father Zuill," said James, turning to the chaplain, who at that moment came on deck; "in this matter, what opinion have you to offer me?"
"We should remember the words of Seneca," replied the priest, folding his hands on his breast, and looking down; "he says—it is uncertain at what place death awaits thee, so wait thou for him in every place. Before old age be careful to live well, and in old age be careful to die well—and herein Seneca gave sound advice."
"Alas, good priest," responded the sad king, "art thou a Scottish subject, and yet forget that thy kings—unhappy race!—never live to become old men?"
"But their virtues and honour survive the tomb," replied the chaplain; "true philosophy can only be acquired by mental suffering. There was a learned Persian who was wont to aver that he who had not suffered knew nothing."
Here the Admiral, who had a great aversion for this kind of conversation, which he did not understand, hailed the maindeck.
"How is she going, Barton?"
"Eight knots—clear off the wet reel, Sir Andrew."