"Priest," said Drake, "listen, and answer me truly. What part did Sir Thomas Winchester take in these enterprises of which thou dost speak?"
I interrupted him.
"It is useless to question this rogue, for I have no more bitter enemy than he is. Why, he even tried to murder me as I slept."
The priest still looked at me, a smile upon his face, the look of a cat as he plays with a mouse in his paws. Here was a triumph, golden and pleasant, surpassing all his dreams—and revenge was sweet. He had long waited for such a moment as this; had lain awake at night to plot how he would achieve it, and now the time had come.
He spoke deliberately, the words coming slowly from his lips:
"Ah, Sir Francis! the gentleman does not like me. Oft have I remonstrated with him at his deeds of blood, but he turned ever a deaf ear to me. I implored him, when in cold blood he slew Sir Samuel Morton, to spare his life, but he would not. I saved from his foul clutches a beautiful Spanish maid that he had marked out for his prey, and since then he has hated me with the fury of a demon. Have I not many a time prayed for him until morning? Prayed that the light might break into his darkened soul, and that he, even then, would return again into the bosom of Mother Church; but he would have none of it. I forgive thee freely for all the threats and curses that thou hast heaped upon this weak head of mine, and would fain refrain from testifying against thee, but duty, Sir Thomas—my duty will not allow me to shrink from this painful task," and he groaned piously. "Ah! how I have longed to stop thee in thy career of blood and crime, and now, through my prayers, I have been made the humble instrument of thy overthrowal. Sir Thomas, I have implored, but thou didst drive me from thee. Truly the wicked have fallen into the pit that they digged," and he cast up his eyes with a look of patient suffering, beautiful to behold, upon his features.
"Peace, thou ruffian!" I cried, "or as I live, I will beat out thy brains with the hilt of my sword," and I made as though to rise.
With a loud yell he rushed through the door.
A group of gentlemen had entered, and now stood around Sir Francis as he sat at the small table, his fingers idly drumming upon it, and his eyes upon my face. As they gathered around him, I saw several that I knew. There was Sir William Stone, old and bald; Henry DeGarner, with his disdainful air; Captain Martin Lane in his armor; the little coxcomb, Sir James Mortimer; Peter Graham, and some six or eight other gentlemen—men whom I did not know—who looked at me coldly, and whispered among themselves.
The pirates had been dragged to their feet; their hands were tied behind them, and they now stood in a long line against the wall.