"Your grandson, my lord—Philip Oglander to wit—born in Brazil in the year fifteen hundred and seventy-four."
"And his mother?" pursued the baron questioningly.
The stranger twirled his newly-trimmed moustachios and answered:
"His mother, so please you, is now resting in Plymouth town, at the sign of the Three Flagons. The weather is somewhat inclement for a lady to travel, and she is weary after our long voyage. In good time, when she hath been furnished with new apparel—apparel more befitting her appearance among such fine ladies as I do see here now,—I shall give myself the pleasure of presenting her in her English home."
Lord Champernoun bit his lip. It was evident that his newly-returned son was not to be heartily welcomed.
By this time the servants at the lower end of the table, having finished their supper, had retired from the hall. The ladies, too, had risen, and Sir Walter Raleigh, with courtly gallantry, had opened the door leading out into the adjoining hall, whence already the sounds of music could be heard.
Lady Betty passed out, followed by her lady guests, glancing as she did so towards the intruder with something akin to indignation in her beautiful blue eyes.
"'Tis some impostor, I'll avow," she whispered to Raleigh as she came near him, "or else some Spanish spy, masquerading in the character of the long-lost Jasper. Thou'lt join us presently, Sir Walter?"
"Gladly, my lady, so you promise us a song," said he, bowing low. And when the ladies had all retired, leaving only Drusilla behind them, he strolled back into the hall and made his way to the fireplace, where, seating himself, he proceeded to fill his tobacco-pipe.