“Good seaman,” he said, “what is this same regicidal gnat you chaunt of?” The prisoner jerked up his battered face, hearing a question in his own tongue. “The gnat,” he said in a thick voice, faintly rollicking, “that killed the King.” “Why and how did he kill him?” An expression of slyness evolved itself from the wrecked features. A parable was quite in keeping with the regenerate privateering of the time. “The King,” said William Donne, “had conquered all the blessed world, from the Orcades to Cape Horn, and then, being puffed-up like, he thought he’d sail for the land of God and conquer that. So he fitted up a fleet of winged carracks and steered for heaven. But was the Almighty disturbed to see the countless host approaching? Not He. He just sent out a single gnat, that flew and crept into the King’s ear and stung his brain, burning it to madness, so that there was an end of the expedition; and the fleet went about, crashing together in its confusion, and returned, what was left of it, to the Spanish Main.” A short pause succeeded, and then Allen smiled and nodded. “To the Spanish Main,” he said, “exactly. And the land of God, my friend?” “What but little England,” cried William Donne, “and Drake the jolly gnat?” The Jesuit turned and interpreted to the King, who, for all his world-dominion, spoke no tongue but his own. His Majesty, caressing his thin beard, answered without emotion: “Well, he hath betrayed his charm. Let the Holy Office get at him at last.” He dismissed the man and the subject with a gesture, and, rising, put a hand upon the priest’s shoulder. His eyes glistened with a cold, remote look, as if their pupils contracted to a distant vision. “It comes, Allen,” he said, “it comes--the fruition of our long desire. These news--how spiteful Fate delays them; and yet it can be but a day or so. To grasp that little stronghold of heresy in our hand at last, and dust the tares into the fire. Woe on them that have baulked us in the hour of their triumph! They shall burn, Allen, they shall burn. We will sweep the land with flame, that the after-crop may be rich and virgin. The world surrenders piecemeal to our Christ, the Prince of love and justice. A land of God we’ll make it----” He paused abruptly on the word, and stood staring, his jaw loose. Then rallied, and, breathing out a deep sigh, whispered: “That dog! A blasphemous appropriation! We’ll show his God of gnats the warrant of the Cross; we’ll dispute his claim, I think. His God!--a Jezebel, a false idol, who sends her ships to poison my new world--mine, decreed of Rome! A curse upon the gnat!”