One might say, I think, that I loved him well, seeing that I have lent
my shoulder for him to climb upon."

"Mortimer, Mortimer," said Nevil, "you know that I love you. My friend,
I pray you to somewhat beware yourself. I think there is in your veins a
subtle poison may work you harm."

Ferne looked steadfastly upon him. "What is its name?"

The other shook his head. "I know not. It is subtle. Perhaps it is
pride--ambition too inwrought with fairest qualities to show as
such,--security of your self of selves too absolute. Perhaps I mistake
and your blood doth run as healthfully as a child's. But you are of
those who ever breed in others speculation, wilding fancies.... When a
man doth all things too well, what is there left for God to do but to
break and crumble and remould? If I do you wrong, blame, if you will, my
love, which is jealous for you--friend whom I value, soldier and knight
whom I have ever thought the fair ensample of our time!"

"I hold many men, known and unknown, within myself," said Ferne, slowly.
"I think it is always so with those of my temper. But over that hundred
I am centurion."

"God forgive me if I misjudge one of their number," answered the other.
"The centurion I have never doubted nor will doubt."

Another silence; then, "Will you see that Spaniolated Englishman, my
prisoner?" asked Sir Mortimer. "He is under charge without."

The Admiral put to his lips a golden whistle, and presently there stood