"What?" exclaimed Timothy. "You will say that it was Philip Oglander? 'Tis not possible, man. Why, the lad's own father informed us only this morning that Philip was but a dullard—a very dunce—at the use of the rapier. The lad admitted as much also, and even spoke of taking lessons from Master Gilbert. It is not possible, I say."
"Ah! I do perceive that thou art yet but a simple countryman, Master Trollope," rejoined Jacob Hartop as he paused at the edge of a great slough of mud that was in front of him and turned to his companion. "A simple country lad that doth see no guile, knowing not of man's manifold wickednesses. But thou'lt learn wisdom with growing years. . . . And so he declared that his son was but a dullard at sword-play, eh? Hark'ee, my lad; attend to an old man's counsel; and when Jasper Oglander—ay, or his son—doth say that a thing is white, believe thou that 'tis in truth black. When he doth declare that he is a devout and zealous Protestant, believe thou that he is in truth an ardent and bigoted Papist. When he doth declare—as I doubt not he soon will—that he is heart and soul for Queen Elizabeth, believe thou that he is all in all for King Philip and Spain. When—"
"Enough!" exclaimed Timothy drawing back a step in anger. "I will hear no more. You are the man's enemy and do but speak against him falsely. He hath given you his help, and yet you turn against him and decry him as though he were a very villain. You say that it was he who robbed you. I tell you 'tis false—false as your own calumnies. Ay, and I will prove its falseness, for the men who robbed you have been caught. They were caught at a late hour yesternight and are now lying in Plymouth gaol."
The old man started at Timothy, astonished and perplexed. Then he turned and carefully picked his way across the slough of mud, saying never a word. At length, when the lad again came to his side, he said very calmly:
"Are you certain sure of this that you tell me, Master Trollope? Are you certain that these men have been caught?"
"Certain," Timothy answered curtly. And they continued their journey in silence.
At this same time Baron Champernoun was in his great gloomy library with Sir Walter Raleigh and Raleigh's cousin, Sir Richard Grenville. His lordship was seated before the fire in a large arm-chair, with his head supported upon pillows and his feet propped up in front of him on a high hassock. Raleigh had been writing at the table, but had now swung round his chair and sat with his two hands clasping one of his knees, looking down at the crimson rosette that adorned his dainty shoe. Grenville stood with his back to the cheek of the fireplace. He was a tall, broad-shouldered seaman of about fifty years of age, with dark curly hair and a full, pointed beard that was sprinkled with gray. There was an easy, careless look about him, and his voice when he spoke seemed to have in it something of the deep low murmur of the sea.
"Ay, cousin Walter," he was saying, "thou hast made a stroke of ill-luck for once with this Pearl. She hath never brought thee much profit to speak of, and this last adventure of hers doth bring her misfortunes to a climax. 'Tis the first time I have known a ship come home from the Indies lacking a cargo that would amply repay her owners for their outlay. And her crew, from what Master Jasper hath told us, are of as little value as herself, what with graybeards for sailing-masters and negroes for seamen. I never saw the negro yet who could handle a rope or trim a sail. 'Tis surprising to me that with such a ship's company the craft hath ever reached port. What wilt do with the old hulk now, Walter,—break it up for firewood, or sell it to thine enemy?"
"Sell the ship, Raleigh,—sell her to Jasper Oglander," interposed Lord Champernoun with a chuckling laugh. "I'll go to the expense of fitting her out anew for him. 'Twill be a cheap enough way of getting rid of him for another year or two."