yet the savor of blood. About each man just breathed some taint of
savagery that was not yet beaten back after yesterday's wild outburst
and breaking of the bars. In some it took the form of the sleek
stillness of the tiger; others were loud-voiced, restless, biting at
their nails. Only to a few was it given to bear triumph soberly, with
room for other thoughts; to the most it came as a tumultuous passion, an
irrational joy, a dazzling bandage to their eyes, beneath which they
saw, with an inner vision, wealth a growing snowball and victory their
familiar spirit. Among the adventurers from the _Cygnet_ there was,
moreover, an intoxication of feeling for the man who had led them in
that desperate battle, whose subtle gift it was to strike fire from
every soul whose circle touched his own. He was to them among ten
thousand the Captain of their choice, not loved the least because of
that quality in him which gave ever just the praise which bred strong
longing for desert of fame. Now he stood beside the Admiral, and spoke
with ardor of the Englishmen who had won that fight, and very tenderly
of the dead. They were not a few, for the battle had been long and
doubtful. Simply and nobly he spoke, giving praise to thirsty souls.
When he had made an end, there was first a silence more eloquent than
speech, pregnant with the joy a man may take in his deed when he looks
upon it and sees that it is good; then a wild cheer, thrice repeated,
for Sir Mortimer Ferne. The name went out of the windows over the sea,
and up to every man who sailed the ship. One moment Ferne stood, tasting
his reward; then, "Silence, friends!" he said. "To God the victory! And
I hear naught of New Cadiz and other fortunate ships." He drew swiftly
from its sling his wounded arm and waved it above his head. "The
Admiral!" he cried, and then, "The _Marigold_!"

When at last there was quiet in the cabin, Nevil, a man of Humphrey
Gilbert's type, too lofty of mind to care who did the service, so that