He paused, being upon his feet, a man of about thirty years, richly
dressed, and out of reason good to look at. In his hand was a great
wine-cup, and he held it high. "I drink to those who follow after!" he
cried. "I drink to those who fail--pebbles cast into water whose ring
still wideneth, reacheth God knows what unguessable shore where loss may
yet be counted gain! I drink to Fortune her minions, to Francis Drake
and John Hawkins and Martin Frobisher; to all adventurers and their
deeds in the far-off seas! I drink to merry England and to the day when
every sea shall bring her tribute!--to England, like Aphrodite,
new-risen from the main! Drink with me!"

The tavern of the Triple Tun rang with acclamation, and, the windows
being set wide because of the warmth of the June afternoon, the noise
rushed into the street and waylaid the ears of them who went busily to
and fro, and of them who lounged in the doorway, or with folded arms
played Atlas to the tavern walls. "Who be the roisterers within?"
demanded a passing citizen of one of these supporters. The latter made
no answer; he was a ragged retainer of Melpomene, and he awaited the
coming forth of Sir Mortimer Ferne, a notable encourager of all who
would scale Parnassus. But his neighbor, a boy in blue and silver,
squatted upon a sunny bench, vouchsafed enlightenment.

"Travellers to strange places," quoth he, taking a straw from his mouth
and stretching long arms. "Tall men, swingers in Brazil-beds,
parcel-gilt with the Emperor of Manoa, and playfellows to the nymphs of
Don Juan Ponce de Leon his fountain,--in plain words, my master, Sir
Mortimer Ferne, Captain of the _Cygnet_, and his guests to dinner, to
wit, Sir John Nevil, Admiral of our fleet, with sundry of us captains
and gentlemen adventurers to the Indies, and, for seasoning, a handful
of my master's poor friends, such as courtiers and great lords