“My fever will never abate this side the grave,” he said. “Jasper, old friend, I would have you sit with me tonight. I am like King Saul, the sport of devils. Be you my David to exorcise them. I have evil news. Tom Keymis is dead.”
The other nodded. Tom Keymis had been dead for ten days, since before they left Trinidad. He was aware of the obsession of the Admiral, which made the tragedy seem fresh news daily.
“Dead,” said Raleigh. “I slew him by my harshness. I see him stumbling off to his cabin, an old bent man, though younger than me. But he failed me. He betrayed his trust.... Trust, what does that matter? We are all dying. Old Tom has only gone on a little way before the rest. And many went before him.”
The voice had become shrill and hard. He was speaking to himself.
“The best—the very best. My brave young Walter, and Cosmor and Piggot and John Talbot and Ned Coffyn.... Ned was your kinsman, Jasper?”
“My cousin—the son of my mother's brother.” The man spoke, like Raleigh, in a Devon accent, with the creamy slur in the voice and the sing-song fall of West England.
“Ah, I remember. Your mother was Cecily Coffyn, from Combas on the Moor at the back of Lustleigh. A pretty girl—I mind her long ago. I would I were on the Moor now, where it is always fresh and blowing.... And your father—the big Frenchman who settled on one of Gawain Champernoun's manors. I loved his jolly laugh. But Cecily sobered him, for the Coffyns were always a grave and pious race. Gawain is dead these many years. Where is your father?
“He died in '82 with Sir Humfrey Gilbert.”
Raleigh bowed his head. “He went to God with brother Humfrey! Happy fate! Happy company! But he left a brave son behind him, and I have lost mine. Have you a boy, Jasper?”
“But the one. My wife died ten years ago come Martinmas. The child is with his grandmother on the Moor.”