“Lay a place for me, Wadloe,” Sir Nicholas said, and went out in search of Sir Francis, or any other friend who might chance to be abroad.
Paul’s Walk was the likeliest place to find Sir Francis; he would be sure to go there to learn what news might be current. Sir Nicholas strode off westwards through the crowded streets, came in good time to the great cathedral, and ran with the clank of spurred heels up the steps.
Merchants and moneychangers no longer congregated in the church, as they had done only twenty years ago, but Paul’s Walk was still the meeting ground for every court gallant who wished to show himself abroad. If a man desired to see a friend, or hear the latest news, to Paul’s Walk he must go, where he would be bound to meet, sooner or later, most of the notables of town.
Beauvallet came up with a score of young gallants, exchanging Court gossip. His glance swept over these; he clove a way through them, and looked keenly round. Over the heads of two foppish gentlemen who eyed him with disfavour, he saw a bluff, square-set man, with a fierce golden beard, and long grey eyes set slightly slanting in a broad face. This man stood with feet planted wide, and arms akimbo, talking to an elderly gentleman in a long cloak. He wore a peascod doublet, hugely bombasted, and a jewel in one ear.
Sir Nicholas pushed through the crowd, and raised his hand in greeting. The square man saw; his narrow eyes opened wider; he waved, and came to meet Beauvallet through the press. “What, my Nick!” he rumbled. His voice had some strength, as if he were accustomed to make himself heard above wind and cannon-shot. “Why, my bully!” He grasped Beauvallet’s hand, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Whence do ye spring? God’s light, I am glad to see you, lad!”
Some heads were turned. A gentleman pushed forward, saying:—“Beauvallet, as I live! Save you, Nicholas!”
Beauvallet greeted this friend, and others who drew near. With Drake’s hand on his shoulder he stood bandying idle talk some little while, answering eager questions. But soon Drake bore him off, and they walked back together towards the Devil Tavern.
“What news?” Drake said. “I had word of you in the Main, ruffling still. What chance?”
“Good,” Sir Nicholas answered, and recounted briefly some of his adventures.
Drake nodded. “No mishaps?”
“Some few deaths, no more. Perinat came out from Santiago to teach me a lesson.” He chuckled, and flung out a hand on which a single ruby ring glowed. “Oho! I took that from Perinat for dear remembrance’s sake.”
Drake laughed, and pressed his arm. “Proud bantam! What else?”
“A galleon bound for Vigo laden with silks and spices, and some gold. More of that anon. Tell your tale.”
Drake had Virginian news, being but just returned from the little colony. He had brought back the colonists, and had much to tell. Talk ran freely, and footsteps lagged. It was after eleven when they reached the Devil, and in an upper room were gathered some half a dozen guests awaiting their host.
Drake rolled in with an arm flung across Beauvallet’s shoulders. “Cry you pardon!” he said. “Look what I bring!”
There was some little stir, a cry of “Mad Nicholas, by God!” and a babel of welcome.
There was Frobisher, ready with a quiet greeting; Master William Hawkins, solid, frieze-clad man; young Richard, his nephew, standing beside Cavendish, a courtier among the sea-dogs; Master John Davys, rugged man, and a scattering of others, most of them known to Sir Nicholas. The rafters rang soon with wild tales tossed to and fro, laughter, and the clink of tankards. Drake sat fatherly at the head of his table and had Sir Nicholas upon his right hand, Frobisher on his left. Frobisher bent his brows at Beauvallet, and said: “I heard of your coming; there were some men of yours met some of mine at the Gallant Howard. Fine doings! I am avised you sail with women aboard. How now, Beauvallet?”
Drake cocked a wise eyebrow in Beauvallet’s direction; young Cavendish looked as though he would like to hear more, yet hardly liked to raise his voice in this august gathering.
“True enough,” Sir Nicholas said lightly.
“Rare work for a sailor,” Frobisher said ironically. “A new cantrip, I doubt?”
“You’re jealous, Martin,” Drake cut in with a deep laugh. “What’s the reason, Nick?”
“Simple enough,” Beauvallet said, and told it, very briefly.
Drake dipped a sop in his wine, and looked sideways a moment. Frobisher said grimly:—“Beauvallet looks for romance upon the high seas, and makes his fine gesture. I would not sail with you, Beauvallet, for a thousand pound.”
“No stomach for it, Frobisher?” Sir Nicholas said sweetly.
“None, beshrew me. What fresh devilment this voyage?”
“Some fine prizes,” Drake said. “And a ring from Perinat—for remembrance’s sake, Nick, eh?”
“I am a plain man,” Frobisher remarked. “Too plain for such doings. Drake and you, Drake and you!” He shook his head over them.
Master Davys let a sudden laugh at this, and began at once to speak of a mooted expedition in search of the Northwest passage he so fervently believed in. “Ay, you’re a mad runagate, Nick, but there’s a place for you with me if you care to venture forth.”
At that there broke out a general discussion, some ribaldry, and a gentle twitting of Master Davys’ earnestness.
Cavendish, listening bright-eyed to all this discourse, ventured a word here and there, and presently spoke of his own plans. He had three ships fitting out for a West Indian expedition, and was agog to follow brave examples set him. Sir Nicholas wished him Godspeed, and drank success to his venture. He found the grave, considering grey eyes of young Richard Hawkins upon him. He threw him a gay word, and young Richard blushed, and laughed.
“This babe sails with you, Drake?” Sir Nicholas said. “Well-a-day! I left him scarce out of his swaddling-bands!”
“Ay, ay,” Drake said. “All alike, these Hawkins—born to the sea. Did you have
