Powell shook his head. "Here are too many sick and dying," he said, simply. "He will come back. I swear to you, Sir John Nevil, that in this pestilent camp between the city and the sea we do think of this man not as a Spaniard--if he be Spaniard--nor as monk--if he be monk! He hath power over this fever, and those whom he cannot cure yet cry out for him to help them die!" There was a silence, followed by Sir John's slow speech. "When he returns send him at once under guard to my quarters--I will make good the matter with Sir Francis. Speak the man fair, good Powell, give him gentle treatment, but see to it that he escape you not.... Here are my men. Good-night." Three hours later to Nevil, yet dressed, yet sitting deep in thought within his starlit chamber, came a messenger from the captain of the watch. "The man whom Sir John Nevil wot of was below. What disposition until the morning--" "Bring him to me here," was the answer. "Stay!--there are candles upon the table. Light one." The soldier, drawing from his pouch flint, steel, and tinder-box, obeyed, then saluted and withdrew. There was a short silence, followed by the sound of feet upon the stone stairs and a knock at the door, and upon Nevil's "Enter!" by the appearance of a sergeant and several soldiers--in the midst of them a figure erect, composed, gowned, and cowled. The one candle dimly lit the room. "Will you stand aside, sir?" said Nevil to his captive. "Now, sergeant--" The sergeant made a brief report. "Await, you and your men, in the hall below," ordered Nevil. "You have not bound your prisoner? That is well. Now go, leaving him here alone."