Elinor smiled, but obeyed, and drawing the coverlid over her fell into a light slumber, broken by a fitful dream in which the world seemed to be whirling around, and Ralph Ingle was pushing it to make it go faster, when suddenly Christopher Neville appeared, and all at once it stopped and she could hear his voice bidding her be of good cheer and fear nothing. Then came the unconsciousness of deeper sleep; and at last, out of that calm there swept a great noise, a rush of feet along the quiet street, a swinging of lanterns, a hurried knocking at the door, and a shout,-- "Make ready all within! _Dick Ingle is at the gates!_" CHAPTER XXIII "HEY FOR ST. MARY'S, AND WIVES FOR US ALL!" Morning was streaking the black of night with a single line of silver as Richard Ingle dropped anchor in St. Mary's River opposite the little town marked by its tall rude cross and its sentinel mulberry-tree on the edge of the bluff. Already the men were lowering boats and filling them with muskets, powder, and shot, and strips of wood soaked in oil. As Ingle looked upward at the sleeping village, his heart swelled with delight. Let no one fancy that happiness is the reward of virtue. To the good there can be little individual happiness that does not carry its own sting in the thought of the cost to others at which it has been purchased, but to the bad man life is simplified to "The good old rule, the simple plan, That he may take who has the power, And he may keep who can." Through these twelve long months the memory of the indignity thrust upon him at Brent's behest, as he firmly believed, by the townspeople of St. Mary's, had rankled in his memory. This, combined with his old grudge against Margaret Brent, drove him back to England. This kindled his delight at finding King Charles defeated and Parliament in control. This was always in mind when he represented to the government the dangerous growth of Catholic power in Maryland, and this the crown of his triumph when he found himself turning the prow of _The Reformation_ westward once more, armed with letters of marque giving him license to attack these dangerous monarchists and schismatics and harry them out of the land if he could. "Now, my friends," thought he, as he peered through the darkness at the dim outlines of the wharf, "we'll see whose turn it is to be tossed aboard a vessel like a sack of grain. I'll settle my score with you, Sheriff Ellyson, and with you, Worshipful Councillor Neale. As for you, Giles Brent, if you get not a sword-thrust from my blade that will make you carry your head a shade less high, my name is not Dick Ingle." As the buccaneer strode up and down the deck nursing his hot wrath, he came to where Claiborne was standing in talk with Ralph Ingle, who had joined his brother as soon as the secret news reached him that _The Reformation_ lay hid among the wooded points of the bay.