"May it please your excellency," he said, "my comrades have no knowledge of Spanish, and I have but little. I am persuaded that your excellency, as a soldier and a gentleman of honour, is anxious to give us a fair trial. There is peace between our Queen and King Philip; there should at least be justice and fair-dealing betwixt you and us. Mine ears tell me that yonder man is more accustomed to speak my tongue than yours; his Spanish hath the same rough English smack about it as hath mine own. I pray you that he may say to us in English what he saith to you in the language of Spain."
Basil reddened and turned to his superior; but the governor, though indolent and capricious, was a man of some honour and chivalry. He told the accuser to speak alternately in the language of the court and that of the prisoners.
Very few sentences in English were necessary to enlighten Johnnie as to Basil's identity. He could now see the spiteful face that confronted him on a memorable morning in the shades of Dean Forest. He listened intently. The harangue was long and tedious, and endeavoured to prove that the tallest prisoner was a contumacious heretic, who had fought against the Holy Church, frustrated her lawful efforts at the conversion of England, and had slain two noble and saintly missionaries and servants of King Philip—to wit, a certain Jesuit father, Jerome, and a monk named John. The prisoner had also repeatedly attempted the life of the speaker. As for the others, one at least had attempted the speaker's life in Plymouth, well knowing who and what he was; and all the others were aiders and abettors.
Johnnie heard, and asked if he had the right of reply.
"Most certainly," said the governor. "This is a court of law, and it is our boast and pride that we give justice without fear or favour."
Whereupon Morgan, with Jeffreys as interpreter, gave his version of the incidents in the forest. A plot, to which no king could have been a party, was set afoot by his accuser and others to destroy a forest over which he (Morgan) was a duly appointed guardian. He fought the conspirators by way of simple duty to his trust. Could he do less and hold up his head amongst honourable men? His accuser and his confederates had basely attempted to assassinate two noble Englishmen—to wit, Admiral Drake and Sir Walter Raleigh, a close friend and counsellor of England's Queen. He asked whether Spain fought with the weapons of assassins, and whether King Philip, as a Christian and friendly monarch, could be a party to any such dastardly conduct. The governor was a gentleman of honour, and could answer for his sovereign.
The governor promptly denied that "His Most Catholic Majesty" could ever countenance such deeds. Johnnie bowed and thanked him, and resumed his defence. He dealt with the questions of piracy and invasion of Spanish dominions. England and Spain were, he declared, at peace, and no official could deny an Englishman the right to travel peaceably in Spanish dominions, unless a law expressly excluded them. Any Spaniard, so long as he did nothing to harm the Queen or the government, might travel in England, and claim the protection of its laws as a peaceful sojourner in the land. Surely the Spaniards were not going to be outdone in matters of international courtesy. As regards the New World, the Englishman contended that it was open to explorers and colonizers of all Christian nations, and Spain could not claim it as her own unless she also occupied it.
The governor heard Morgan patiently, and hearkened to Master Jeffreys whilst he expounded his ideas of the rights of England in the New World. Then his excellency summed up the case. He ruled that the two gentlemen adventurers were not prisoners of the Holy Office, but of his Majesty. The charges against them were those of piracy and invasion. They had certainly been captured on Spanish soil in the act of appropriating—or endeavouring to appropriate—treasures that belonged to Spain. Moreover, they were companions of a Captain Drake, who, with his brother, the admiral, had been guilty of repeated and gross piracies on the high seas. Their guilt was fully established, and by law they ought to be taken down to the harbour and hanged in chains, as a warning to others. Mercy, however, should be shown them; their lives would be spared, but they must serve ten years in the galleys. A hint was given, after a whispered consultation with the bishop, that renunciation of their Protestant heresies would bring about a material lightening of their sentences.
The five seamen were next put on trial. Basil promptly claimed the Johnsons as fugitives from the Inquisition. The cropped ears and lost thumbs were convincing evidence against them, and they were handed over to the Church, to be dealt with according to the law ecclesiastical. An attempt to claim the other three sailors failed. The governor would not quit his hold on them. His own galley was sadly undermanned, and he could not let three stout and skilled oarsmen slip through his fingers. He looked longingly upon the two crop-eared fellows, and begrudged the Church the possession of them. But he remembered with a sigh that there must be give and take in this world, and five out of seven was not a bad proportion.
The court broke up. The five galley-slaves were taken back to their cell for that night. Nick and Ned were walked away in charge of the jailers of the Inquisition. Their ultimate fate was to be decided the next day.