CHAPTER X THE BLACK FLAG GOES UNDER
The cold morning light shone through the windows and lit up the room about me. It fell upon the walls, all spotted and stained with wine; upon the overturned tables and the golden goblets, which lay here and there upon the floor; upon the figures of the pirates, as they snored where they had fallen among the chairs in last night's bout.
I was lying flat upon the floor where I had been struck down by the goblet thrown by the priest. Putting my hand to my head, I felt a great bruise upon my forehead, which was clotted with blood. Sitting up upon the floor, I gazed around me; the Count was nowhere to be seen, nor was Oliver.
A sound at the door caught my ear, and I looked toward it—ye gods, did my mind wander? There standing sword in hand, looking into the room, his men behind him, stood my old acquaintance and sometime friend, Sir Francis Drake.
"Francis!" I joyfully cried, "Francis!—thou here?"
He started, a look of surprise upon his face.
"I could swear that I had heard that voice before," he muttered to himself, his eyes glancing down upon the fantastic scene upon the floor until it fell upon me, as I sat up among the slumbering pirates, still weak and faint from the blow that the sneaking priest had dealt me.
He looked at my face a moment—that gayly dressed gallant, with the bloodstained ruff and sober face, where had he seen him before?
A look of recognition came into his eyes.