The queer fact seemed to
be that the speaker appeared himself to be the victim of some Spanish
plot. Now why should that be, and he a Spaniard?
The young captain turned from the window, into which through the
clearing air the moon was shining, to find the stranger looking at him
with sane though troubled eyes.
"The _Golden Fleece_?" he asked in English. Drake shook his head.
"You've had a bad hurt, sir," he said, and briefly explained the
circumstances.
"Ah," said the man frowning, and was silent.
"If you would wish to send any word to your friends,--" Drake began, and
hesitated.
"I have no friends here, save my servant Sancho. The _Golden Fleece_
will sail on Saint James's Eve for Coruna, and he was to meet me at
Dover and return with me to our own country. In Alcala they know what to
expect of a Saavedra."
The last words were spoken with a proud assurance that gave the listener
a tingling sense of something high and indomitable. Saavedra's dark eyes
were searching his face.
"I fear I trespass on your kindness," he added courteously, "and that I
have talked some nonsense before I came to myself."
"Nothing of any account, sir," answered the lad quickly. "Mostly it was
Spanish--and I don't know much o' that. You'll miss your ship if she
sails so soon, but you're welcome here so long as you like to stay.
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