I had heard enough for once, and for the time being I resolved not to mention the matter either to Drake or to Felgate.
Of what was taking place betwixt England and Holland we learned little. Occasionally we had a visit from the governor of the fortress, a Major Van der Wycke, a courteous and honest soldier, who carefully refrained from hurting our susceptibilities with reference to the war, though he told us of the great fire that practically destroyed the best part of London. This we were told on Christmas Day, over three months after its occurrence.
Very slowly the days passed. Winter gave place to spring, yet no sign of our being released was given us, neither did any loophole of escape present itself. One day Joyce came into my room with the news that he was leaving the service of the States of Holland, and had a good offer for his sword from the King of France. He seemed very elated, and now was the time to obtain what information I could.
"Thou art a Yorkshireman, perchance?" I enquired offhandedly, interrupting him in the midst of a rambling statement.
"I a Yorkshireman? Never, young sir!"
"Then from Lincolnshire, doubtless?"
"Nor from Lincolnshire. Why didst think so?"
"From thy manner of speech, Sergeant," I replied, forcing a laugh. "It savours much of the north."
"I have travelled much, and know both those counties well."
"Then perchance Midgley is known to you, Sergeant?"