“See those five talking earnestly in the centre of a ring which longs to overhear and yet is too respectful to approach close. Those soft, long eyes and pointed chin you recognize already; they are Walter Raleigh’s. The fair young man in the flame-coloured doublet, whose arm is round Raleigh’s neck, is Lord Sheffield. Opposite them stands, by the side of Sir Richard Grenville, a man as stately as he, Lord Sheffield’s uncle, the Lord Charles Howard of Effingham, Lord High Admiral of England; next to them is his son-in-law, Sir Robert Southwell, captain of the _Elizabeth Jonas_. But who is that short, sturdy, plainly-dressed man who stands with legs a little apart and hands behind his back, looking up with keen gray eyes into the face of each speaker? His cap is in his hands, so you can see the bullet head of crisp brown hair and the wrinkled forehead, as well as the high cheek-bones, the short square face, the broad temples, the thick lips, which are yet as firm as granite—a coarse, plebeian stamp of man. Yet the whole figure and attitude are that of boundless determination, self-possession, energy; and when at last he speaks a few blunt words, all eyes are turned respectfully upon him—for his name is Francis Drake. “A burly, grizzled elder, in greasy, sea-stained garments contrasting oddly with the huge gold chain about his neck, waddles up, as if he had been born, and had lived ever since, in a gale of wind at sea. The upper half of his sharp, dogged visage seems of brick-red leather, the lower of badger’s fur; and as he claps Drake on the back, and, with a broad Devon twang, shouts, ‘Be you a-coming to drink your wine, Francis Drake, or be you not?—saving your presence, my lord!’ the Lord High Admiral only laughs, and bids Drake go and drink his wine with John Hawkins, admiral of the port.” As they lift their long-necked Dutch glasses a rough-bearded old sea-dog bursts in upon them and cries to the Lord Admiral,— “My lord! My lord! They are coming! I saw them off the Lizard last night.” “Who, my good sir?” “The Armada, your worship—the Spaniard! You’ll find them here before nightfall, my lord.” “Then we must haste,” observes the Lord High Admiral; and turning to Drake, he says, “I must command the help of your counsel, vice-admiral.” “And it’s this, my good lord,” replies Drake, who has taken up a bowl and is now aiming it at the jack: “they’ll come soon enough for us to show them sport, and yet slow enough for us to be ready; so let no man hurry himself. And as example is better than precept, here goes.” So saying he aims his bowl. Hawkins follows suit, and the game is played to a finish. “There, vice-admiral,” cries the veteran, “you’re beaten, and that’s the rubber. Pay up three dollars, old high-flyer, and go and earn more, like an honest adventurer.”