the Admiral's grave voice.

"He is dead," said De Guardiola at his right hand.

"Of his fate, valiant señors," began the fuddled Mexia, "you alone may
be precisely aware--"

"He is dead," again stated with deliberation Don Luiz. "I know, señors,
the pool where these fish were caught and the wood where alone grows
this purple fruit. So you set at liberty those three slaves, the
caciques?... Well, I had reason to believe that they had hidden gold."

"Where is Master Francis Sark?" demanded Nevil, of Ferne. "I did command
his attendance here to-night."

"He plead a tertian fever--would not mar our warmth with his shivering,"
said the other. "I sent the chirurgeon to his cell--for indeed the man
shook like a reed."

It would appear that Francis Sark was an unknown name to their guests,
for no flicker of recognition passed over the countenance of any
Spaniard. They sat at the long table, and foe drank to foe while fiddle
and hautboy made music and the candles slowly wasted and in the hot
night the garlands withered. Perfumes were lit in the room, and the
smoke of their burning made a violet haze through which quivered the
heart-shaped candle flames. The music had a wild ring, and laughter as
wild came easily to a man's lips. The English laughed for that their
spirits were turned thistle-down, and the Spaniards laughed because a
man's foe should not see his chagrin.