The
stranger was gaunt, gray and without jewel, gold chain or signet ring
to show who he was, but it was the same man who had spoken to him at
Gravesend five years ago.
A barge-load of London folk had come down to see the launching of the
_Serchthrift_, the new pinnace of the Muscovy Company, and among them
was the venerable Sebastian Cabot. Alms were freely distributed that the
spectators might pray for a fortunate voyage, but Frankie Drake was
gazing with all his eyes at the veteran navigator. A hand was laid on
his shoulder, and a friendly voice inquired,
"Did you get your share of the plunder, my son?"
The lad shook his head a trifle impatiently. "I be no beggar," he
answered. "I be a ship's boy."
"Ay," said the man, "and you seek not the Golden Fleece?"
His eyes laughed, and his long fingers played with a strange jewel that
glowed like Mars in the midnight of his breast. It was of gold enamel,
with a splendid ruby in the center, and hanging from it a tiny golden
ram. Could he mean that? But the crowd surged between them and left the
boy wondering. He had never spoken to a Spaniard before.
As the fluttering pulse grew stronger and the man roused from his
stupor, disjointed phrases of sinister meaning fell from his lips. No
names were used, and much of his talk was in Spanish, but it suggested a
foul undercurrent of bribery, falsehood and conspiracy hidden by the
bright magnificence of the young Queen's court.
Pages:
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263