"Who and what is this Master Secretary that hath set the maiden of the Rose Croft to look upon me with an evil spirit? I would fain know if he think himself a properer man than I. Doth he stand upon his fingering of a lute, and his skill to dance?—Why even in this chamber-craft I will put it to a wager he is no master of mine. Is he more personable in shape or figure?—goes he in better apparel? or is that broken English of his more natural to the province than my plain speech, that he should claim the right to chide me for my behaviour? Is it that he hath a place in the train of his Lordship? Have not I served as near to a belted knight—lord of a thousand stout hearts and master of a fleet of thirty sail?—ay, and in straits where you should as soon expect to meet a hare as that crotchet-monger. A bookish clerk with no manly calling that should soil his ruff in the space of a moon! By Saint Iago, but I will put him to his books to learn how he shall heal the stroke of a choleric hand, when the time shall serve to give him the taste of it!—Mistress Blanche would not be importuned—indeed! And he must be my tutor to teach me what pleaseth Mistress Blanche. He lied—the maiden did not mislike my question;—she but hung her head to have it so openly spoken. I know she doth not set at naught my favours, but as damsels from custom do a too public tender of a token. Old Anthony Warden counts his friends by their manhood, and he hath shown me grace:—his daughter in the end will follow his likings—and as the father's choice approves, so will hers incline. Am I less worthy in old Master Warden's eyes, than yonder parchment bearer—that pen-and-ink slave of his Lordship's occasions?—he that durst not raise his eye above his Lord's shoe, nor speak out of a whisper when his betters are in presence? What is he, to put me from the following of my own will when it pleases me to speak to any maiden of this province?—I am of the sea—the broad, deep sea! she hath nursed me in her bosom,—and hath given me my birth-right to be as proudly borne as the honours of any lord of the land. I have a brave deck for my foot, a good blade for my belt, the bountiful ocean before me and a score of merry men at my back. Are these conditions so mean that I must brook the Secretary's displeasure or fashion my speech to suit his liking?—We shall understand each other better, in good time, or I shall lack opportunity to speak my mind:—I shall, good Master Verheyden,—you have the word of a 'Brother of the Bloody Coast' for that!"
Before the Skipper had ceased this petulant and resentful self-communion, he found himself in the neighbourhood of the Catholic Chapel, nearly in front of the dwelling of father Pierre, when the good priest, who was at this moment returning from noon-day service, took him at unawares with the salutation,—
"Peace be with you, son!—you reckon up the sum of your ventures with a careful brow, and speak loud enough to make the town acquainted with thy gains, if perchance some of the chapmen with whom thou hast dealing should be in thy path. How fares it with thee, Master Skipper?"
"Ha, Mi Padre!" exclaimed Cocklescraft, instantly throwing aside his graver thoughts and assuming a jocular tone. "Well met;—I was on my way to visit you: that would I have done yesterday upon my arrival, but that the press of my business would not allow it. You grow old, father, so evenly that, although I see you but after long partings, I can count no fresh touch of time upon your head."
"Men of your calling should not flatter," said the priest smiling. "What news do you bring us from the old world?"
"Oh, much and merry, father Pierre. The old world plies her old trade and thrives by it. Knavery hath got somewhat of the upper hand since they have quit crossing swords in this new piece of Nimeguen. The Hogan Mogans are looking a little surly at the Frenchman for cocking his beaver so bravely; and our jobbernowl English, now that they can find no more reason to throttle each other, have gone back to their old sport of pricking the side of our poor church. You shall find as many plots in London, made out of hand and ready for use in one month, as would serve all the stage plays of the kingdom for the next hundred years—and every plot shall have a vile Papist at the bottom of it,—if you may believe Oates and Bedloe. I was there when my Lord Stafford was made a head shorter on Tower Hill. You heard of this,—father?"
"Alack! in sorrow we heard of this violence," replied the priest, "and deeply did it grieve my Lord to lose so good a friend. Even as you have found it in England, so is it here. The discontents against the holy church are nursed by many who seek thereby to command the province. We have plotters here who do not scruple to contrive against the life of his Lordship and his Lordship's brother the Chancellor. Besides, the government at home is unfriendly to us."
"You have late news from England?" inquired the Skipper.
"We have,—and which, but that you are true in your creed, I might scarce mention to your ear—the royal order has come to my Lord to dismiss his Catholic servants from office—every one. His Lordship scruples to obey. This, Master Skipper, I confide to you in private, as not to be told again."
"To remove all!" said Cocklescraft. "Why it will sweep off his nearest friends—Anthony Warden and all."