What happened? Go ask it of the fishers of San Lucar and the pirates of Bonanza, where the tale has been told for generations. The great oars snapped like reeds, the slaves were thrown in crushed and mangled heaps, the tall deck of the port galley was ripped out of her like rent paper by the stout yards of the stooping Margaret, the side of the starboard galley rolled up like a shaving before a plane, and the Margaret rushed through. Smith, the captain, looked aft to where, ere they sank, the two great ships, like wounded swans, rolled and fluttered on the foaming bar. Then he put his helm about, called the carpenter, and asked what water she made. “None, Sir,” he answered; “but she will want new tarring. It was oak against eggshells, and we had the speed.” “Good!” said Smith, “shallows on either side; life or death, and I thought I could make room. Send the mate to the helm. I’ll have a sleep.” Then the sun vanished beneath the roaring open sea, and, escaped from all the power of Spain, the Margaret turned her scarred and splintered bow for Ushant and for England. ENVOI Ten years had gone by since Captain Smith took the good ship Margaret across the bar of the Guadalquiver in a very notable fashion. It was late May in Essex, and all the woods were green, and all the birds sang, and all the meadows were bright with flowers. Down in the lovely vale of Dedham there was a long, low house with many gables—a charming old house of red brick and timbers already black with age. It stood upon a little hill, backed with woods, and from it a long avenue of ancient oaks ran across the park to the road which led to Colchester and London. Down that avenue on this May afternoon an aged, white-haired man, with quick black eyes, was walking, and with him three children—very beautiful children—a boy of about nine and two little girls, who clung to his hand and garments and pestered him with questions. “Where are we going, Grandfather?” asked one little girl. “To see Captain Smith, my dear,” he answered. “I don’t like Captain Smith,” said the other little girl; “he is so fat, and says nothing.” “I do,” broke in the boy, “he gave me a fine knife to use when I am a sailor, and Mother does, and Father, yes, and Grandad too, because he saved him when the cruel Spaniards wanted to put him in the fire. Don’t you, Grandad?” “Yes, my dear,” answered the old man. “Look! there is a squirrel running over the grass; see if you can catch it before it reaches that tree.” Off went the children at full pelt, and the tree being a low one, began to climb it after the squirrel. Meanwhile John Castell, for it was he, turned through the park gate and walked to a little house by the roadside, where a stout man sat upon a bench contemplating nothing in particular. Evidently he expected his visitor, for he pointed to the place beside him, and, as Castell sat down, said: “Why didn’t you come yesterday, Master?”