"Thou art prepared, Sir Thomas," he cried, with a grand air and a sweeping bow. "And though thou mayest jeer at me if thou choosest, I will say to thy face, that thou art a goodly sight. Would that the fair ladies of London might see thee to-night; it would create a sensation, I can tell thee." "Nonsense, boy!" I replied. "I have grown too old and rough to be a pleasant sight for a lady. She would want some fawning tailor's model, sweet-scented and delicate, and not a rude man such as I am." But, nevertheless, pleased by his light flattery, I stepped forward to where one of the great mirrors hung and glanced at myself. Was this the silent, rough man, clad in his faded doublet, his sword in hand, ready at a moment's notice to defend himself from the foes who sought his life? There looked back at me from the mirror the figure of a man, clad in splendid silks, a rich collar of lace about his neck, elegantly and richly dressed; his hair, in which the gray threads were beginning to shine, was combed back and fell upon his shoulders. The little pointed beard which he wore, was flecked with gray here and there; and his face, tanned and brown, was one which seemed created to command. The deep lines of suffering had purified and ennobled the face never handsome; the youth and gayety were gone from it, never to return, but 'twas stronger, deeper, better than it had been in the old days. The light hazel eyes, with that look of understanding that only sorrow brings, were more sympathetic and kinder than they had been of yore. Yet as I looked at myself in the glass, and saw the gray threads in my hair and beard, I felt to-night as though I had reached the summit of the hill of life, and was beginning the long descent down the other side. Yes, to-night I realized that I was beginning to be an old man, with the best in life behind me. I knew not what the night or morrow held in store for me, but the struggle and toil and suffering of the last year had taught me patience; the fire of youth had burned out, and I would wait, and the morrow would tell. Oliver had already dressed himself; young and comely he stood there, and I, for the moment, envied him his youth and buoyancy. Together we descended the stairs, and passed into the great dining hall; both of the large sliding doors between the dining and front room had been thrown back, and now there was but one immense room. The candlelight that night streamed down on a strange and motley crew. Down the great room there ran three long tables; around them there sat the entire crew of the ship, clad in the silks and satins of the nobles of Europe; with fine collars of lace and gold about their bronzed throats; their long hair perfumed and scented; their faces those of every nationality. It was a scene such as I have never witnessed before or since. At a small table placed at the head of the room sat DeNortier, stroking his black beard. He arose as we entered.