Her Majesty of England, standing upon a dais, receives very haughtily the two adventurers, whose doublets are shabby with hard usage, but whose swords are long, and whose gaunt faces give evidence of poverty and half rations. “You are here, gentlemen,” she says, “to petition me—for what?” “Provisions to keep us from starving,” answers the admiral. “No provisions!” “Good heavens! In the name of charity. We had supposed you enemy of Alva.” “I am the friend of Alva. No provisions! What else?” “And water—we have only three days’ water in our vessels. Permit us at least that which humanity never refused to thirsty sailor—water!” “No water! Dare to land to take water from running stream or lake and I make war upon you!” “And this is a Christian country?” “Yes, Christian enough to keep its obligations and faith with Spain, a friendly power. If within twenty-four hours you have not sailed from our port of Dover our batteries and castle open upon you with bombard and culverin.” “And drive us away without water, without food, upon the open ocean?” “YES!” “Then, Your Majesty,” says Van Tresslong, “God forgive your inhumanity. We have given up for our religion, which is yours; for our country that you have professed to love, everything we have on earth—save our lives. When the time comes we will give up them also. It must now be our lives. We must go back to death grip with Alva!” “Heaven help us,” sighs the admiral. “We have not even powder to fight with!” and the two, bowing together, retire in despair from the presence of England’s sovereign. She makes one step as if to stay them, then cries harshly: “God forgive me! I shall be called an inhuman woman. I shall dream of these poor, starving Gueux to-night. But they shall not go back without ball and powder!” With this she says to Chester: “Has your vessel sailed?” “No, Your Majesty.” “Then you shall go also. Here are orders for you to have all the powder, arms, ball and ammunition you can carry. Take them. Sail from the port of Sandwich to-night. Meet the Gueux fleet off Dover. Arm them; ammunition them, give them plenty to fight with.” “But, Your Majesty,” replies Guy, who now knows he will win what he wants, “I have no money to pay my crew.” “Here is an order on my treasury for twenty thousand crowns.” And Elizabeth, sitting down to write, says suddenly: “But your crew is only one hundred and twenty-five men. Fifteen thousand crowns will keep your surly dogs from growling,” and signs order to that effect, next almost tears it up, muttering: “I think ten thousand will be sufficient.” “No, Your Majesty, it will not, and the expedition will be cheap at fifteen thousand crowns, for by it you will set a band of cut-throats on Alva, who, while they may curse your inhumanity, will fight far better than your belted knights, for they will be fighting, not for country now, not for religion now, but for that thing that dominates all men’s souls—EXISTENCE! Besides, they do it free of charge!”