"Quantity will serve us better than quality, perhaps. But go, both of ye, to the commandant and tell him that Captain Drake of the _Golden Boar_ out of Plymouth will wait upon him at sunrise to-morrow. Take a ship's boat with four rowers and four archers, and let the Indians guide you." A boat was instantly lowered, Nick made the Indians understand what was required of them, and the deputation rowed ashore. Their comrades watched them curiously, and an equally interested group of natives gathered on the shore to await their arrival. The keel bit into the sand, the two messengers stepped out, and the escort of archers formed up behind them. The rowers pushed the boat back so that it floated easily, then shipped their oars and waited. One of the Indians, proud of his position, strutted importantly at the head of the small procession. (The unfortunate fellow was soundly whipped before nightfall for rendering any assistance to the hated English.) Natives hung about in little groups, but no Spaniard was seen until the gate of the castle was reached. There a sleepy sentinel yawned at them until they had repeated for the third time their request for an interview with the commandant. That officer was indulging in "siesta" and refused to be disturbed, and the deputation was still on the outer side of the gate. Master Jeffreys lost his patience and his temper. "My message to thy master, fellow, was a civil one," he exclaimed, "and to the effect that Captain Drake of Plymouth, Devon, England, would honour him by waiting upon him at sunrise to-morrow. Now, methinks, Captain Drake will come to him in less ceremonious fashion and without further delay." The irate Devonian turned on his heel and strode off. And by so doing he missed the gratification of seeing the effect of his words. The name of "Drake" twice repeated acted as a talisman on the slumberous senses of the sentinel. His jaw dropped in sudden terror; he stared for a moment at the retreating figures, and then dashed into the castle at a run. He burst in upon his drowsy commander. "Alas, signor, what have we done! The army of the saints preserve us!" "From what, blockhead?" "From the archfiend in the flesh. 'Tis Drake that hath sailed into the bay." The commandant sat and gaped in stupid affright. "Drake!" shouted the soldier. He had no need to say more. His officer's chin dropped on to his breast. "We are dead men," he muttered. "Why has he come hither? We have no gold, no treasure-ships. He will burn the place over our heads." The man continued muttering to himself and fingering the buckle of his loosened belt. The soldier looked through the window. "The Englishmen stand on the beach," he said, "talking with Ayatlan, the chief. There is no movement on the ship; no one signals. The messengers were civil when they came."