a hidden God swelled so loud that it rang in the ears of the sick below,
tossing, tossing, muttering and murmuring, though it pierced not the
senses of them who lay still, who lay very, very still. The hymn ended,
the chaplain began to read, but the gray-haired Captain stopped him with
a gesture. "Not that," he commanded. "Read me a psalm of vengeance, Sir
Demas,--a psalm of righteous vengeance!"



XI

In England, since the stealing forth of one lonely ship, heard of no
more, three spring-times had kissed finger-tips to winter and bourgeoned
into summer, and three summers had held court in pride, then shrivelled
into autumn. In King Philip of Spain his Indies, blazing sunshine,
cataracts of rain, had marked off a like number of years, when Sir
Francis Drake with an armada of five-and-twenty ships, fresh from the
spoiling of Santiago and Santo Domingo, held the strong town of
Cartagena, and awaited the tardy forthcoming of the Spanish ransom. Week
piled itself upon week, and the full amount was yet lacking. When
negotiations prospered and the air was full of promise, Sir Francis and
all his captains and volunteers were most courteous, exchanging with
their enemies compliment and entertainment; when the Spanish
commissioners drew back, or when the morning report of the English dead
from fever or old injuries was long, half the day might be spent in the
deliberate sacking of some portion of the town. With the afternoon the
commissioners gave ground again, and like enough the evening ended with
some splendid love-feast between Spaniard and Englishman. On the morrow
came the usual hitch, the usual assurances that the gold of the town had
been buried (one knew not where) by its fleeing people, the usual proud