"'Tis a pity that so fine a fellow should hang like a dog, but it cannot be helped," he murmured. "Sir, I shall report thy gallant conduct to the Queen. I am sorry I can do no more. Sir Francis Drake related thy story to me last night. It is a passing strange one, incredible and unbelievable, and I would I could believe it. I am Howard."
I had never seen him, but I recognized the family favor. I had known his father when I was but a lad, and had loved the bluff old gentleman.
"Let me congratulate thee upon thy great victory," I said, bowing low. "It is one with which the world will ring, and in which her majesty will rejoice. Truly, 'twas a splendid fight, but I believe it is over now, as I see several of the ships around us." And I looked out to where there lay a dozen shot-riddled vessels.
"I thank thee," he answered. "The credit is to my men, and not to me. The fight is, as thou sayest, won. The Armada has turned tail and flown; our ships are after her as hard as they can go."
"What has become of Sir Francis?" I asked, looking about me. "I fear that he is slain."
"No," he answered, "we found him, with about a dozen of his men, holding the Spaniards at bay upon the other side of the vessel. He has even now made his way out to one of yonder ships to pursue the foe. He left his report concerning his voyage and thyself with me last night, and but just now charged me to send thee, and the boy, Oliver Gates, by the first ship to London, together with the report."
"Oliver!" I cried, my thoughts instantly upon him. "Where is he—hast thou seen aught of him?" and I turned to look behind me where I had left him.
Yes, there he lay, still limp and quiet, his eyes closed, breathing heavily, a pool of blood around him, which flowed from a great cut in his breast.
I knelt beside the boy.