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“They fought with me, Sire.”

“Ah; conscience? I had heard that you were able to do about as you pleased with your conscience.”

“Not conscience, Sire, but pity.”

“Pity is misplaced in a public servant or a robber. A man may do what it is profitable to do. You yourself have demonstrated two of these premises. Let us see you labor with the third,” the King said acidly.

“I wonder if I can.”

“If you wonder, then you can,” John Evelyn put in.

The King's manner changed.

“Come! drink!” he said. “We must have life, and perhaps later, song. Tell us a tale, Captain, and drink while you tell it. Wine adds capitals and asterisks to a good tale—a true story.”

“A tale, Sire?”

“Surely. Some story of the colonial wenches; some little interlude in piracy—for I am sure you did not steal only gold.” He motioned a servant to keep Henry's glass filled. “I have heard of a certain woman in Panama. Tell us about her.”

Henry drained his glass. His face was becoming flushed.

“There is a tale about her,” he said. “She was pretty, but also she was an heiress. I confess, I favored her. She would inherit silver mines. Her husband offered one hundred thousand pieces of eight for her. He wanted to get his hands on the mines, Here was the question, Sire, and I wonder