"And so," the story ended, "the breath of the Lord went forth and the storm blew, and fell on the fleet of Spain, and scattered them; and they went down in our very waters, they and their arms and their treasure, their guns and their gunners, their mariners and their men-of-war. And the remnant was scattered and driven northward, and some were wrecked on the rocks, and some our ships met and dealt with, and some poor few made shift to get back across the sea, trailing home like wounded mallards, to tell the King their master what the Lord had done for England." "How long ago was it, all this?" Dickie asked. If his memory served it was hundreds of years ago--three, five--he could not remember how many, but hundreds. Could this man, whose hair was only just touched with gray, be hundreds of years old? "How long?--a matter of twenty years or thereabouts," said the ship-builder. "See, the pretty little ship; and thy very own, for I made it for thee." It was indeed a pretty little ship, being a perfect model of an Elizabethan ship, built up high at bow and stern, "for," as Sebastian explained, "majesty and terror of the enemy", and with deck and orlop, waist and poop, hold and masts--all complete with forecastle and cabin, masts and spars, port-holes and guns, sails, anchor, and carved figure-head. The woodwork was painted in white and green and red, and at bow and stern was richly carved and gilded. "For me," Dickie said--"really for me? And you made it yourself!" "Truth to tell, I began it long since in the long winter evenings," said his friend, "and now 'tis done and 'tis thine. See, I shall put an apron on thee and thou shalt be my 'prentice and learn to build another quaint ship like her--to be her consort; and we will sail them together in the pond in thy father's garden." Dickie, still devouring the little _Golden Venture_ with his eyes, submitted to the leather apron, and felt in his hand the smooth handle of the tool Sebastian put there. "But," he said, "I don't understand. You remember the Armada--twenty years ago. I thought it was hundreds and hundreds." "Twenty years ago--or nearer eighteen," said Sebastian; "thou'lt have to learn to reckon better than that if thou'st to be my 'prentice. 'Twas in the year of grace 1588, and we are now in the year 1606. This makes it eighteen years, to my reckoning." "It was 1906 in my dream," said Dickie--"I mean in my fever." "In fever," Sebastian said, "folk travel far. Now, hold the wood so, and the knife thus."