"Small harm, say you?" cried the wayfarer, speaking now for the first time. "But they have robbed me--robbed me of all that I had in the world!" "Your all cannot surely have been much, my friend, since you carried it with you so lightly," said Timothy. "There is little use in making such dole over a trifle." "Ah, you do not know, you do not know!" said the other, pacing to and fro in his dire distress. "As well might they have taken my life as what they have gone off with." Timothy searched into the man's face, yet saw nothing to enlighten him in the black darkness. "Art thou of Plymouth?" he presently asked. "That I am, my master," came the reply. "My name, sirs, is Jacob Hartop--Jacob Hartop that went out with John Hawkins in the year sixty-seven, and that hath now come home only to be waylaid and robbed by a parcel of villainous cut-purses that sprang upon me from among the trees yonder. I had not heard them behind me, for it chanced that, being somewhat lonesome on dry land, I fell to chanting a little song, as it were for company's sake. I warrant me the ruffians would not so have overpowered me had they not thrown my cloak over my eyes and mouth, and thus disabled me from defending myself." He drew the garment about his shoulders, turning up its high collar round his neck. "'Tis a cloak that a kindly young gentleman gave unto me as I stepped ashore," he went on. "Had I been without it I might have worsted my assailants; and yet had I not had it I must surely have been slain, for one of the villains stabbed at me with his dagger with intent to take my life, and by God's providence the blade, instead of entering my heart, struck upon one of these gay silver buttons." He paused and looked at Gilbert as the lad limped towards him. Even in the darkness he seemed to recognize him. "Now, beshrew me if thou art not the self-same young gentleman who gave me the cloak," he cried in grateful surprise. Then, noticing that Gilbert walked lame, he added, "But thou art limping! Hast hurt thy leg in the scrimmage?" Timothy glanced in alarm at his young master, and besought him to tell what injury he had received. "I slipped on the snow," explained Gilbert, "and gave my foot a twist. 'Tis naught to speak of. Come, let us hasten home. Sir Francis Drake hath gone to spend the night with my grandfather and certain of his friends from London, and we may yet be in time to hear him relate some of his adventures ere he returns to Plymouth. I will take thy arm, Timothy, for my foot is paining me, and--". He was about to tell that he had been wounded, but not wishing to alarm his companions, or perhaps a little ashamed of being defeated by a mere footpad, he kept the matter to himself.