were lost and brave men tasted death, but there was no shame. He who
held command that lamentable day was Captain--now Sir Mortimer--Ferne;
for I, who was Admiral of the expedition, must lie in my cabin, ill
almost unto death of a calenture. I dare aver that no wiser head ever
drew safety for many from such extremity of peril, and no readier sword
ever dearly avenged one day's defeat and loss. Your news, sir, was
false. I drink to a gentleman of known discretion, proved courage,
unstained honor--"

It needed not the glance of his eye to bring men to their feet. They
rose, courtiers and university wits, soldiers home from the Low
Countries, kinsmen and country friends, wealthy merchants who had staked
their gold in this and other voyages, adventurers who with Frobisher and
Gilbert had sailed the icy seas, or with Drake and Hawkins had gazed
upon the Southern Cross, Captain Baptist Manwood, of the _Marigold_,
Lieutenant Ambrose Wynch, Giles Arden, Anthony Paget, good men and tall,
who greatly prized the man who alone kept his seat, smiling upon them
from the head of the long table in the Triple Tun's best room. Baldry,
muttering in his beard that he had made a throw amiss and that the wine
was to blame, stumbled to his feet and stood with the rest. "Sir
Mortimer Ferne!" cried they all, and drank to the seated figure. The
name was loudly called, and thus it was no slight tide of sound which
bore it, that high noon in the year 158-, into the busy London street.
Bow Bells were ringing, and to the boy in blue and silver upon the bench
without the door they seemed to take the words and sound them again and
again, deeply, clearly, above the voices of the city.

Mortimer Ferne, his hand resting upon the table before him, waited until
there was quiet in the tavern of the Triple Tun, then, because he felt
deeply, spoke lightly.