"From the archfiend in the flesh. 'Tis Drake that hath sailed into the bay."
The commandant sat and gaped in stupid affright.
"Drake!" shouted the soldier.
He had no need to say more. His officer's chin dropped on to his breast. "We are dead men," he muttered. "Why has he come hither? We have no gold, no treasure-ships. He will burn the place over our heads." The man continued muttering to himself and fingering the buckle of his loosened belt.
The soldier looked through the window. "The Englishmen stand on the beach," he said, "talking with Ayatlan, the chief. There is no movement on the ship; no one signals. The messengers were civil when they came."
"Son of a donkey!" blazed forth the commandant, "why didst not thou say so? Run after them; prevent them from carrying angry faces to the robber who rules them. If I had men—not sheep—under me, I would fight this Drake; I'd rid the world of him, and Pope and king should bless me. But run, run!"
And the soldier ran. Terror lent wings to his heels. One name rang through his brain, and the name was "Drake." He caught Master Timothy just re-embarking his little band. The sight of the Indians restored him to some measure of dignity, and he volubly explained that the Spanish captain had not understood the signer's message. He apologized profusely, and promised that his commandant would make amends for the mistake by paying the great sea-captain a visit as soon as a boat could be made ready.
Nick understood more of the rapidly spoken Spanish than did Jeffreys, and he was satisfied. "There has doubtless been a mistake," he said to his companion. "Probably this knave never carried our message properly. He is scared half out of his wits, and looks like a rogue condemned to be hanged. All's well that ends well. Let us be getting back to the ship with a friendly report."
About an hour later, the commandant, accompanied by an imposing retinue, both Spanish and Indian, rowed out to the Golden Boar. Captain Drake and the gentlemen of his company had been to their wardrobes and donned their best, and the visitors by no means carried off the prize for the splendour of their array. As far as physique was concerned the Dons were completely outclassed. Sallow and listless from tropical fevers and loose living, they stood in sharp contrast to the brawny, clear-skinned Englishmen. The difference was obvious even to their own proud eyes, and they felt it.
No sooner were the Spaniards aboard than they fixed their gaze on the group on the upper deck, and one thought prevailed in the minds of all—"Which was the terrible Drake?"