Anthony turned to the landlord, who had just ceased thumping with his
great red fists on the table.
"What was the captain's name?" he asked, when a slight lull came.
"Maxwell," said the crimson-faced man. "Hubert Maxwell--one of Drake's
own men."
* * * *
When Anthony came upstairs he heard his name called through the door, and
went in to Isabel's room to find her sitting up in bed in the gloom of
the summer night; the party below had broken up, and all was quiet except
for the far-off shouts and hoots of cheerful laughter from the dispersing
groups down among the narrow streets.
"Well?" she said, as he came in and stood in the doorway.
"It is just the story of the prize," he said, "and it seems that Hubert
had the taking of it."
There was silence a moment. Anthony could see her face, a motionless pale
outline, and her arms clasped round her knees as she sat up in bed.
"Hubert?" she asked in an even voice.
"Yes, Hubert."
There was silence a moment.
"Well?" she said again.
"He is safe," said Anthony, "and fought gallantly. I will tell you more
to-morrow."
"Ah!" said Isabel softly; and then lay down again.
"Good-night, Anthony."
"Good-night."
But Anthony dared not tell her the details next day, after all.
* * * *
There was still a difficulty about the horses; they had not arrived until
the Wednesday morning, and were greatly exhausted by a long and
troublesome journey; so the travellers consented to postpone their
journey for yet one more day.
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