"Ah, Sir Francis! the gentleman does not like me. Oft have I remonstrated with him at his deeds of blood, but he turned ever a deaf ear to me. I implored him, when in cold blood he slew Sir Samuel Morton, to spare his life, but he would not. I saved from his foul clutches a beautiful Spanish maid that he had marked out for his prey, and since then he has hated me with the fury of a demon. Have I not many a time prayed for him until morning? Prayed that the light might break into his darkened soul, and that he, even then, would return again into the bosom of Mother Church; but he would have none of it. I forgive thee freely for all the threats and curses that thou hast heaped upon this weak head of mine, and would fain refrain from testifying against thee, but duty, Sir Thomas--my duty will not allow me to shrink from this painful task," and he groaned piously. "Ah! how I have longed to stop thee in thy career of blood and crime, and now, through my prayers, I have been made the humble instrument of thy overthrowal. Sir Thomas, I have implored, but thou didst drive me from thee. Truly the wicked have fallen into the pit that they digged," and he cast up his eyes with a look of patient suffering, beautiful to behold, upon his features. "Peace, thou ruffian!" I cried, "or as I live, I will beat out thy brains with the hilt of my sword," and I made as though to rise. With a loud yell he rushed through the door. A group of gentlemen had entered, and now stood around Sir Francis as he sat at the small table, his fingers idly drumming upon it, and his eyes upon my face. As they gathered around him, I saw several that I knew. There was Sir William Stone, old and bald; Henry DeGarner, with his disdainful air; Captain Martin Lane in his armor; the little coxcomb, Sir James Mortimer; Peter Graham, and some six or eight other gentlemen--men whom I did not know--who looked at me coldly, and whispered among themselves. The pirates had been dragged to their feet; their hands were tied behind them, and they now stood in a long line against the wall. Sir Francis turned to them. "What of the Englishman, Sir Thomas Winchester?" he inquired. "Did he engage in the expeditions with thee, or did he remain here as a captive?" They raised a loud shout. "He is the ringleader," they cried as though with one voice. "Did he not slay Sir Samuel Morton?" one cried, midst the approval of his fellows. "He wears his doublet now!" another shouted. "And his sword!" roared another. "He knew no mercy!" screamed a burly villain in a green doublet. "He would have taken the Spanish maid had not the priest dissuaded him," said another. Drake turned to me; his face had hardened. "What more couldst thou ask, Sir Thomas? They corroborate the priest in every detail with one accord. Here is evidence enough to hang an angel of light." Then turning to old Sir William Stone.