"I'll warrant," said the old steward, "that where he found his cloak he found a purse not far off."
"But not hose or doublet; so the magical virtue of his staff has not helped him much. But put down thy staff, man, and speak like a Christian, if thou be one."
"I am a Christian, though I look like a heathen; and no rogue, though a masterless man, alas! But I want nothing, deserving nothing, and only ask to speak with Sir Richard, before I go on my way."
There was something stately and yet humble about the man's tone and manner which attracted Amyas, and he asked more gently where he was going and whence he came.
"From Padstow Port, sir, to Clovelly town, to see my old mother, if indeed she be yet alive, which God knoweth."
"Clovally man! why didn't thee say thee was Clovally man?" asked all the grooms at once, to whom a West countryman was of course a brother. The old steward asked—
"What's thy mother's name, then?"
"Susan Yeo."
"What, that lived under the archway?" asked a groom.
"Lived?" said the man.
"Iss, sure; her died three days since, so we heard, poor soul."
The man stood quite silent and unmoved for a minute or two; and then said quietly to himself, in Spanish, "That which is, is best."
"You speak Spanish?" asked Amyas, more and more interested.
"I had need to do so, young sir; I have been five years in the Spanish Main, and only set foot on shore two days ago, and if you will let me have speech of Sir Richard, I will tell him that at which both the ears of him that heareth it shall tingle; and if not, I can but go on to Mr. Cary of Clovelly, if he be yet alive, and there disburthen my soul; but I would sooner have spoken with one that is a mariner like to myself."
"And you shall," said Amyas. "Steward, we will have this man in; for all his rags, he is a man of wit." And he led him in.
"I only hope he ben't one of those Popish murderers," said the old steward, keeping at a safe distance from him as they entered the hall.
"Popish, old master? There's little fear of my being that. Look here!" And drawing back his rags, he showed a ghastly scar, which encircled his wrist and wound round and up his forearm.
"I got that on the rack," said he quietly, "in the Inquisition at Lima."
"O Father! Father! why didn't you tell us that you were a poor Christian?" asked the penitent steward.
"Because I have had nought but my deserts; and but a taste of them either, as the Lord knoweth who delivered me; and I wasn't going to make myself a beggar and a show on their account."
