Still he waited.... At twenty-three, the age at which his son met death in a Spanish ambuscade on the eve of a great discovery, with a shining future before him, he himself was fighting in Ireland, an obscure soldier of fortune. The days of his past life appeared before him, his Queen's favour, his Queen's displeasure, the high mark which he had touched, the low place to which he had sunk, his captivity, his renewal of hope through the gallant Prince who was dead, his freedom, and this last tremendous effort to bring greatness to his country, prosperity to his family; and he was still waiting, while Keymis and George Ralegh took the last great step. He would tell his wife of their son's death when he could console her with the knowledge of what he had himself achieved. But no news came from Keymis. He could trust Keymis. He knew the man well and cared for him. All through his captivity who had served him as faithfully as Keymis? Who had believed in him so staunchly as Keymis? Who had helped him even so well? Perhaps Keymis and all his men were slain, or lost, or drowned. Just before the middle of March Keymis returned. There was gladness on his face to see his master alive, but the gladness did not continue. He brought bad news. The faces of his men showed anger and discontent. Keymis brought the worst news that any man could have brought to Ralegh after his long days of waiting. The scheme had failed, failed beyond all hope of recovery, and there was nothing to show for all the lives that had been thrown away, all the dangers and difficulties that had been surmounted. For this is what had happened.