fell clattering from his shaking hand. Nevil, the calm accustomed state,
the iron quiet of his nature quite broken, advanced with agitation.
"Mortimer, Mortimer!" he cried, and would have put his arms about his
friend, but Ferne stayed him with a gesture and a look that none might
understand. Behind him came Robin-a-dale, slipped beneath his
outstretched arm, then with head thrown back and wild defiant eyes faced
the little throng of adventurers. "He's mad!" he shrilled. "My master's
mad! He says strange things--but don't you mind them, gentles.... Oh!
Sir John Nevil, don't you mind them--"

"Robin!" said Ferne, and the boy was silent.

Arden pushed forward the huge and heavy chair from the head of the
board. "Stand not there before us like the shade of him who was Mortimer
Ferne," he cried, his dark face working. "Sit here among us who dearly
love you, truest friend and noblest gentleman!--Pour wine for him,
one of you!"

Ferne made no motion of acquiescence. He stood against the door which
had shut behind him and looked from man to man. "Humphrey Carewe--and
you, Gilbert--and you, Giles Arden--why are you here upon the _Mere
Honour_? The _Cygnet_ is your ship." None answering him, his eyes
travelled to others of the company. "You, Darrell, and you, Black Will
Cotesworth, were of the _Phoenix_. What do you here?... The water rushes
by and the timbers creak and strain. Whither do we go under press
of sail?"

Before the intensity of his regard the men shrank back appalled. A
moment passed then. "My friend, my friend!" cried Nevil, hoarsely, "you
have suffered.... Rest until to-morrow."