Frazer made no answer.
“Ah, for some liaison, I doubt not. Mark me, a woman will work your downfall.”
The youth laughed carelessly, and would have gone away, but his friend detained him. “A ship from Spain has joined the Madre de Dios. We return across the seas. Philip will invade England.”
Frazer started, trembled. His cheeks flushed, a new light shone in the blue eyes. The whole expression read: Ambition.
“Invade England!”
“Yes; with an armada so great that the issue is foregone. Naturally, your Highness”—the title came half ironical, half serious—“will want to step first on English soil, no more as Ralph Contempt or Frazer.”
“Nay, no more.” The echo sounded dreamy.
“Now,” pursued St. Magil, “we have bigger fish to fry than these of Virginia. Roanoke is but a minnow, England a whale.”
Frazer’s lips parted, smiling. “I have had many names,” he said, “but the whale unpleasantly suggests a new one—Jonah! Now, a minnow—” but he was only babbling words detached from thoughts, all-expectant, bewildered, glad, eager, like a child on Christmas Eve.
“Your Highness,” observed the other, “will make a merry—”