“But Francis Agnew is dead! With my own eyes I saw him lie dead, in the robing-room of Professor Anatole ”

“Row, you skulking ’Giffe’!” cried the “comité,” bringing down his whip upon the Abbe John’s shoulders, which were bare, with a force that convinced him that he at least was both alive and awake.

So he kept silence and rowed in his place next the side of the vessel. And even his wonder in the matter of Claire’s father could not prevent his cursing in his heart the man who had brought him to this pass the talkative, hospitable, and far-descended Don Sileno Lorent y Valvidia, of the Parador of the Cabeledura d’Oro in the town of Rosas.

The galley of the first class, Conquistador, was one of the few which had been left behind in the Mediterranean at the time of the Great Armada. Most of the others had been carried northward for coast defence, and now lagged idly in port for lack of crews to navigate them. So that it became a quaint dilemma of King Philip’s how to obtain sufficient heretics for his autos de fe without impoverishing too greatly his marine.

The Conquistador kept close company with the Puerto Reale, another of the same class, but with only two hundred slaves aboard to the three hundred and fifty of the Conquistador. The “comité,” or master-in-charge of the slaves, walked up and down a long central bench. His whip was hardly ever idle, but it did not fall again upon John d’Albret not from any pity for a newcomer, but because the ship’s purser had let out the fact that a considerable sum in gold was in his hands to the credit of the newcomer. For King Philip, though he persecuted the heretic with fire and sword, fine, imprisonment, and the galleys, did not allow his subordinates to interfere with his monopoly. And indeed, as the Abbe John learned, more than one officer had swung from the forty-foot yard of his own mainmast for intromitting wrongfully with a prisoner’s money.

As to the captains, they were for the most part impoverished grandees or younger sons of dukes and marquises. Most were knights of Malta and so apparent bachelors, whose money would go to the Order at their death. In the meantime, therefore, they spent royally their revenues. The captain of the Conquistador was the young Duke of Err, recently succeeded to the ambassadorial title, and it was said of him that he counted the life of a galley-slave no more than that of a black-beetle beneath his seigneurial heel.

So long as the boat remained at sea, there was no sleep for any slave. Neither, indeed, for any of the “comités” or sub-officers, who consequently grew snappish and drove their slaves to the very limit of endurance, so that they might the sooner reach the harbour. Yet it was full morning before the awnings were spread within the roads of Barcelona, and the Abbe John could stretch his limbs so far, that is, as the chain allowed. He had been placed, at the request of the senior oarsman of his mess, Francis Agnew, in the easiest place, that next to the side of the galley. Here not only was the stroke of the oar shortest, but at night, or in the intervals of sleep, the curve of the ship’s side made a couch, if not luxurious, at least, comparatively speaking, tolerable.

The “comité” hoisted his hammock across the broad coursier or estrada which ran the length of the ship, overlooking and separating the two banks of oars, and formed the only passage from the high poop to the higher stern. It was also useful in rough seas, when the waves broke right across the ship, and (a mere detail) over the rowers also. For the only communication with the hold was by gangways descending from either end of the coursier.

The Abbe John heard the sound of the chief “comite’s” whistle with astonishment so varied were its tones, the quick succession of its notes, that the prompt understanding and obedience of the slaves and sailors, at whatever part of the deck they were placed, seemed as magic to him.

“Do as I do,” said Francis Agnew, noticing his bewilderment. So the Abbe John halted and pulled, raised his oar level or backed water at the word of Claire’s father. And all the while he kept looking sideways at the Dead-come-to-Life-again with speechless wonder and the sense of walking in a dream. Only the sound of the “comite’s” lash on his comrades’ backs kept him convinced of the general reality of things.

Francis Agnew was a strong and able-bodied rower, much remarked and approved by his chiefs. At various periods of an adventurous life he had served on the French and other galleys, even including those of Turkey. So that all the commands and disciplines came easily to him. He had even been charged with the provisioning of the rowers of the whole port side, and on occasion he could take the “comite’s” whistle and pipe upon it, to the admiration of all.

Claire’s father began his tale as soon as he had arranged his great grey cloak of woollen stuff commodiously, and laid the pillow (which he had by favour) close to the Abbe John’s ear.

“The servants of the Sorbonne who were employed to carry my body to the vault were greedy rascals. It was their thought at first to sell my body to the younger surgeons for the purpose of their researching. But after stripping me of my apparel, it chanced that they cast a bucket of water over me to help me to ’keep’ the weather being hot in those Barricade Days in the city of Paris.”

At this moment the tread of the night-sentinel approached along the coursier above their heads. The voices and whisperings ceased before him as by magic. It was full afternoon without, blazing under the chinked awnings. But officially it was night on board the galley. Day closed when the whistle of the “comité” blew. Mostly a careful captain, from motives of self-interest more than from any humanity, worked his men in the cool times of the night. For the Mediterranean is always so luminous of itself that the merest ripple of air is sufficient to stir the water and show the way. Moreover, in times of peace and on that safe coast galleys were rarely moored save in calm weather.

“It happened thus” as the sentinel passed Francis Agnew took up the tale “after the Sorbonne rascals had plashed the cool water over me, I sat up suddenly and looked about me for a sword. But, there being none, I was in their power. For ten days they kept me in hold in a secret place among firewood, deep underground, without any loophole whatever. Twice a day they brought me food, and by the light of a candle they dressed my wounds one of them being expert at that business, having had practice in the hospitals. Then when I was recovered they gave me a candle which burned two hours only. And with it also a pile of brushwood to cut up into small pieces. This was the pleasantest part of the day to me. But they always took away the axe afterwards, bidding me push it through beneath the door, so that whoever came with my next meal might see it. Else I would get no dinner. For they feared lest I might brain one of them as he came in, and then make a rush for the passage-way. But I knew that the doors were shut behind, so that there was no chance. And besides, being a Christian man, I was covenanted to fight only when I could do so without sin, and with some chance of continuing the life so marvellously preserved to me!

“Then this Flamand, the chief of the servitors of the Sorbonne Holtz was his name, a huge-handed animal of monkey breed, but with cunning under that sloping skull of his made interest to find me a place in one of the slow waggons which carry the king’s artillery to the port of Calais, where the new forts are. And me he laid, tied like a parcel between two brass guns for sieging, strapped down and gagged, feeding me at nights when the convoy halted. Also he paid the chief waggoner so much. For he meant to sell me for a slave to the Duke of Parma, who at that time was gathering a great fleet of galleys to destroy England. I had heard them arguing the matter somewhat thus:

“‘Better kill him and be done,’ said one; ’thus we are sure of a hundred shields for him from the lads of the beef barrel.’ (So they spoke of the young surgeons of the Sorbonne.)

“However, the Flamand (a vantard and a bully, but very cunning) offered to fight any man there, or any two with fists or knives or any other weapon in their choice. And when no one took up his challenge, he cried out, ’Ho, stand back there, ye pack of cowards! This man is mine. A hundred silver shields! What is a hundred shields, when for such a wiry fellow, albeit a little old, we will get a hundred gold pieces from Parma, if only we can get him as far as Nieuport.’

“And so to Parma I was given, but the galley I was first placed in met with an English ship-of-war, and she ran us so close that we could not row. Her prow scraped us, breaking the oars and tossing the dead about, many being slain with the bounding fragments. And I I was in the place next the port-hole, and I mind me I could lay my hand on the muzzle of a shotted gun. But that is the last I remember. For at that moment the Englishman fired a broadside and swept our decks. I alone was unhurt, and after a while in the lazar-house of Vigo, I came hither in a galleasse to teach the ‘comités’ of the Mediterranean side the newer practice of the fleets of the North.”

He chuckled a little, his well-trained ear taking in the diminuendo and crescendo of the sentinel’s footsteps on the wooden platform above his head.

“But from what I saw of the English,” he murmured, “I judge that before long there will be no need of galleys to fight Spain’s battles.”

In a moment John d’Albret knew that his companion had not yet heard of the destruction of the Great Armada. He told him.

“Glory to the God of Battles,” he said, hushed and low, “to Him the praise!”

Just then all the bells of the city began to ring, slow and measured. The sound came mellowed over the water and filtered through the striped awnings of yellow and red.

“Some great man is dead,” he said, “perhaps the King Philip, I mean. Or else a day of humiliation ”

“Auto de fe!” came along the benches in a thrilling whisper, for in spite of their fatigue few of the slaves were asleep. The afternoon was too hot, the glare from the water intolerable.

“Ah, well, the sooner to peace for some poor souls,” said Francis the Scot. Then a thought seemed to strike him. “It is not possible no, you cannot have heard. I dare not expect it. But I had a daughter, she was named Claire. They told me that is, the Flamand Holtz, a not unkindly brute, though he had resolved to make money out of me, dead or alive well, he told me that one of the wisest of the professors, a learned man, had taken her under his care. They escaped together to go to his mother’s house with one of the students, a cousin of the Hope of Israel. You never heard no, it is not possible. Why should I dream it?”

The Abbe John’s throat became suddenly dry. He gasped for a moment, but could not speak.

“You do know she is dead tell me!” said Francis the Scot, shaking him roughly by the arm. And that was the single unkindness he used to the young man.

“No, no!” gasped John d’Albret. “She is well. I love her. I was that third who escaped in her company!”

“Where is she?”

“Nay, that I do not know exactly,” said the Abbe John, “but it is in France, in a quiet province, with good folk who love her though not as I love her. For I came hither for her sake!”

And he told the tale how, in Jean-aux-Choux’s secret cache behind the sheepfold on the hill, he had found a list of the articles for transport to Dame Amelie’s new abode, with directions to the carriers, and one or two objects of price, evidently set aside for Jean to carry thither himself upon his next visit. So far, therefore, he was assured that all went well.

“God is great!” said Francis the Scot aloud; and the captive Turk who rowed outside oar, catching the well-known formula, added instantly, “And Mohammed is His prophet.”

But on this occasion, at least, he was mistaken. For like many a good proselyte who knows little of his master’s doctrine yet draws converts notwithstanding not Mohammed or Another, but plain, flippant, light-hearted John d’Albret was on this occasion the Prophet of the Lord.