For a while compliment and courtesy led each party in chains; they
masked distrust and hatred beneath cloth-of-gold ceremoniousness,
punctiliously accepted a Roland for an Oliver, extravagantly praised the
prowess of men and nations whom they much desired to sweep from the face
of the earth. But as time wore on and the wine went round, this cloak of
punctilio began to grow threadbare and the steel beneath to gleam
dangerously. There was thunder in the air, and men were ready to play at
ball with the apples of discord, though as yet they but tossed to each
other the poisonous flowers which should grow that fruit. "How mightily
on such a day did your little island!" cried the Spaniards. "Ah, señors,
the invincibleness of your conquistadores!" ran the English testimony.
"El Draco, Juan Acles, yourselves, valorous gentlemen, what daring past
most pirates to sail the King of Spain his seas!" came the
Spanish retort.

"The King of Spain his seas!" an Englishman echoed, softly.

"Why, had you not heard?" said Arden. "God gave them to him on creation
morning."

"Pirates! That is a prickly word!" swore Baldry.

"Why do you smile, señor?" demanded De Guardiola of the gentleman
opposite him, this being Sir Mortimer Ferne.

"Did I smile, señor? I but chanced to think of a hound of mine who once
was king of the pack, but now grows old." The Englishman shrugged. "True
he thinks himself yet the fleetest and the strongest, but the younger
dogs outstrip him. Presently they will snatch from him every bone."