"What medicine?" I questioned, wondering.
"'Tis a soothing draught I have decocted from some of my simples—it will make you sleep."
"But I have no mind to sleep!"
"'Tis why you must drink your potion."
"Never in this world!" says I, mighty determined.
"Why yes you will, dear Martin," says she gently, but setting her dimpled chin at me. "I'll go fetch it." And away she goes forthwith and is presently back bearing an embossed cup (like unto a little porringer) and of gold curiously ornamented.
"Here is a noble cup!" says I.
"In these secret caves, Martin, is nothing that is not beautiful. The walls are all hung with rich arras, the floors adorned with marvellous rugs and carpets. And there are many pictures excellent well painted. Pirate and wicked as he was, Black Bartlemy understood and loved beautiful things."
"Aye, he did so!" says I, scowling.
"And amongst these pictures is one of himself."