"Indeed, Master Grenville," quoth Tim, "methought I had e'en done so. I gave him a good span of my weapon in his chest ere he ran off to the boat, and I warrant he'll not soon recover. Rather, I should say, I will warrant that he cannot recover."
Timothy carried the rapier back with him to Plymouth that night, and when he reached home he examined it. He saw that its point had been roughly ground down, obviously with the purpose of shortening the weapon to the limited length required by the law. Timothy immediately remembered that this had been done to Philip Oglander's rapier. He looked at the hilt and at once recognized it. Yes, there was no doubt that this was Master Philip's weapon. There was no doubt either that the young man with whom Tim had just had the duel on the beach and whom he had wounded was Philip Oglander himself.
Arguing upon this fact, Timothy was not long in coming to the conclusion that the escape of the Spanish prisoners of war had been achieved by the help of Philip, if not also of Jasper. There was truth, then—absolute truth—in the accusation which Timothy had made, that Jasper Oglander and his son were in league with the King of Spain, and that they had all along been plotting in the interests of England's enemies.
CHAPTER XII.
BARON CHAMPERNOUN.
IT was on a certain sunny afternoon in early March, the year 1591. The quays and wharfs around Sutton Pool were thronged with people—women in bright-coloured gowns and snowy ruffs, gentlemen with plumed hats and gaudy, flowing capes, yeomen and tradesmen in their more sober garments, and noisy, boisterous apprentices. From the little casement windows of the quaint gabled houses near by, many faces looked out upon the busy scene below, and here and there a white kerchief was waved in farewell to some soldier or seaman watching it from the heavily-laden boats that were putting out into the harbour. For it was the day of the departure of Lord Thomas Howard's squadron of war-ships on its treasure-hunting expedition to the islands of the Azores. The ships' masts could be seen with their white sails half-unfurled, and their pennants, ancients, and banners fluttering gaily in the breeze that blew from off the land.
The crowd was thickest near to the landing-stairs, where a stream of men—some wearing glittering morions and corselets, others wide seamen's hats and long sea-cloaks, and each with a clanking sword by his side—moved slowly towards the stone steps, where the boats were waiting to convey them out to their respective ships.
Among them was old Jaoob Hartop. He carried his bundle of spare clothing and a pair of heavy boots under his arm. His face looked fresher and younger, his eyes were brighter, and his step was lighter than three months before, when he had landed at this same place from on board the Pearl. No one seemed to know him as he passed through the throng, saving only a curly-headed boy, who pulled at his coat and cried:
"What, Master Hartop! Art going with the fleet then? Didst not tell us that you had done with sea-faring for the rest of thy days?"