Book III

Now in the cabin of the Golden HyndeAt dusk, Drake sent for Doughty. From one wallThe picture of his love looked down on him;And on the table lay the magic chart,Drawn on a buffalo horn, all small peaked isles,Dwarf promontories, tiny twisted creeks,And fairy harbours under elfin hills,With marvellous inscriptions lined in red,--As Here is Gold, or Many Rubies Here,Or Ware Witch-crafte, or Here is Cannibals.For in his great simplicity the manDelighted in it, with the adventurous heartOf boyhood poring o'er some well-thumbed taleOn blue Twelfth Night beside the crimson fire;And o'er him, like a vision of a boyIn his first knighthood when, upon some hillWashed by the silver fringes of the sea,Amidst the purple heather he lies and readsOf Arthur and Avilion, like a starHis love's pure face looked down. There Doughty came,Half fearful, half defiant, with a crowdOf jostling half-excuses on his lips,And one dark swarm of adders in his heart.For now what light of chivalry remainedIn Doughty's mind was thickening with a plot,Subtler and deadlier than the serpent's firstAttempt on our first sire in Eden bower.Drake, with a countenance open as the sun,Received him, saying: "Forgive me, friend, for IWas hasty with thee. I well nigh forgotThose large and liberal nights we two have passedIn this old cabin, telling all our dreamsAnd hopes, in friendship, o'er and o'er again.But Vicary, thy friend hath talked with me,And now--I understand. Thou shalt no moreBe vexed with a divided mastership.Indeed, I trust thee, Doughty. Wilt thou notBe friends with me? For now in ample proofThou shalt take charge of this my Golden HyndeIn all things, save of seamanship, which restsWith the ship's master under my command.But I myself will sail upon the prize."And with the word he gathered up the chart,Took down his lady's picture with a smile,Gripped Doughty's hand and left him, staring, sheerBewildered with that magnanimityOf faith, throughout all shadows, in some lightUnseen behind the shadows. Thus did DrakeGive up his own fair cabin which he loved;Being, it seemed, a little travelling home,Fragrant with memories,--gave it, as he thought,In recompense to one whom he had wronged.For even as his mind must ever yearnTo shores beyond the sunset, even soHe yearned through all dark shadows to his friend,And with his greater nature striving stillTo comprehend the lesser, as the skyEmbraces our low earth, he would adduceJustifications, thus: "These men of lawAre trained to plead for any and every cause,To feign an indignation, or to proveThe worse is better and that black is white!Small wonder that their passion goes astray:There is one prayer, one prayer for all of us--Enter not into judgment with Thy servant!"

Yet as his boat pulled tow'rd the Spanish prizeLeaving the Golden Hynde, far off he heardA voice that chilled him, as the voice of FateCrying like some old Bellman through the world.