‘So they called him. It might be. ’Twas the name of a bloody picaroon, had sailed the seas and pillaged and murdered in his time. He was said to have treasure hid here; and to have killed and pitched down the well some young conveniency that lived with him, and that came to learn too much. Wives’ tales, I doubt not. There was nothing found after his death. I saw him once, an old sanctimonious buck-fitch, in whose mouth butter had not melted.’ Brion listened, with open eyes. Here was a new garnish to an old tale which greatly enhanced its savour. A pirate! And the poor maid had found out his secret! At least that was a more plausible story than the demoniac immolation imagined by Mother Harlock. ‘_I_ should like to sail the seas,’ said he, his eyes shining; ‘but for a better purpose than robbery and murder.’ For the first time the grim Sheriff looked at him with interest. ‘What purpose?’ said he. ‘To carry England’s fame from land to land,’ answered the young man, ‘and, as doughty knighthood used, to uphold my mistress peerless against all the world.’ ‘God’s ’slid! and so she is!’ cried Clerivault, in a high ecstatic voice. He had remained, a privileged attendant, when the meal was over, to carry the wine about. The Sheriff bent astonished wrathful brows on the daring interjector; but Raleigh regarded him with an amused curiosity. ‘What’s that, Sir donzel?’ said he. ‘You love your England?’ It was to put spark to tow, and set it flaring unquenchably. Clerivault forgot his duty, his company, his place, and broke forthwith, his eyes glittering, into a wild rhapsodic paean on his native land:--