The Golden Galleon. Robert Leighton

Come, my young poacher, open your wallet that I may see!"

      He caught the boy by the shoulder and turned him round, grabbing at the bag.

      "'Tis but a few poor herbs, your honour, that I have been gathering for my father," explained Tim, opening the bag.

      "And what does your father with such wretched weeds?" demanded Sir Richard.

      "They are to be made into physic, sir," said the lad.

      "Physic?" cried Sir Richard, shaking his head in doubt. "Nay, poison more like! What is thy name, boy?"

      "Timothy Trollope, at your honour's service," returned Tim. "Father's a barber-surgeon."

      "Ay, a barbarous surgeon truly, if 'twas he that patched up Jan Coppinger's broken skull last week. I'd have made a goodlier job of it myself. And so Timothy is your name, eh? Well, I'll bear it in mind, boy; for 'twas you, if I mistake not, that I saw yester-noon helping to drag tipsy Tom Vercoe out of Sutton Pool. 'Twas a kindly deed, to say the least on't. And look you, Master Timothy, if ever you should take to the notion, as most boys do if I know ought of boyhood, of joining Her Majesty's service on the sea, you have but to acquaint me with it, and I'll be sworn you shall not wait long for a ship. Dost know me?"

      Timothy's face brightened as he answered:

      "There be few boys in Plymouth town that do not know your worship. You are Sir Richard Grenville that went out to Virginia, and that also fought against the infidels at Lepanto."

      The joyous young voice of Drusilla Oglander broke in upon this little conversation.

      "Come, Captain Grenville," said she, taking Sir Richard by the arm and dragging him under the shadow of one of the beech-trees. "Y'are standing in the middle of the sea where you are. We are about to play at a great sea-fight, and you are to be the Spanish fleet."

      It was strange to see the tall strong man being led about by this little girl and made to do her bidding as if she had been his sovereign queen.

      "Even as you list, good my mistress," said he with a docile submission which was hardly to be expected in one who had the reputation of being a cruel and relentless warrior. "I am willing to enact whatsoever part you please; only, if, as I suspect, I am to be the Armada, as you made me on the other occasion when you brought me to such disaster, I do beseech you to excuse me the long voyage round the islands of Orkney, for my limbs are scarce equal to the journey this morning."

      "You shall take what part you choose," interposed Gilbert Oglander, standing at his sister's side and glancing up into Sir Richard Grenville's twinkling gray eyes.

      Gilbert was a boy of thirteen years old, very agile and active. His hair was very dark, and its darkness made his skin seem all the more fair and clear. In stature he was not very tall for his age, but his limbs were sinewy and strong, and one could see at a glance that he was of gentle birth, that he had lived much of his life in the open air, and that he was well fitted to endure all manner of fatigue.

      "You shall take what part you choose," said he.

      "Why, then, an that be so," returned Captain Grenville, "I will choose to be Don Hugo de Monçada's great galleass, for then I may lie and rest me on Calais beach and thus be out of the action, as she was when she ran aground."

      "Yes," agreed Drusilla; "but first you must be the whole Spanish fleet, anchored in Calais Roads. Master Pym will help you to make a show of numbers, while Gilbert will, of course, be Sir Francis Drake on board the Revenge, and Sir Martin Frobisher on board the Triumph, and whichever other of our English admirals he doth care to be. I am myself to be the lord admiral's flag-ship."

      "And, prithee, what ship or squadron of ships doth young Timothy Trollope represent?" questioned Sir Richard Grenville. "Surely you will not scorn so useful an addition to the game?"

      "We had best make Timothy enact the part of the English fire-ships," suggested Christopher Pym, smiling as his eyes rested upon the lad's bright red hair. And at his suggestion Drusilla clapped her hands together and cried "Yes, he shall be the fire-ships!"

      And she forthwith proceeded to point out to her strangely-assorted playmates how the wide stretch of grass in front of them was to be understood by them all to be the Narrow Seas, how the distant plantation where Timothy had gathered his herbs was to represent the French coast between Calais and Dunquerque, and how the embankment of the fish-pond was to be Calais Roads. The higher ground under the beech-trees where the five were now standing was to be looked upon as the Kentish cliffs.

      These matters being arranged to the understanding of all, the Spanish Armada, in the persons of Sir Richard Grenville and Master Christopher Pym, sailed obediently up the English Channel, pursued at no great distance by the English flag-ship and her consorts, who assailed their enemy with round after round of heavy shot, discharged from their chase-guns. There was one very tremendous engagement between Frobisher's Triumph and the Spanish Santa Anna, which presently grew into a general conflict in which many ships were sunk. Then the Spaniards, much crippled in the fray, were permitted to sail on again, only to be again pursued by their persistent foes. The English ships bore down upon them, and then, being within easy range, luffed up and poured their broadsides into the enemy's hulls with relentless fury. But the Armada looked always as formidable as ever, and again and again they formed themselves in line of battle, to endure yet again the prolonged fire of the English guns.

      At last the Queen's fleet fell back and allowed the Spaniards to sail on in calm security to their desired refuge in Calais Roads. When, as they imagined, they were at a safe anchorage and hoped to repair the damages of battle (for in truth Sir Richard Grenville had received some surprising buffetings at the hands of Drusilla and Gilbert Oglander, to say nothing of Master Pym, whose wide-brimmed hat lay abandoned in mid-channel), the English ships drew near with the fell purpose of dislodging the enemy and driving them out into the open sea. And when night was supposed to have fallen, the lord-admiral and Sir Francis Drake put their woolly heads together in warlike conference and decided to send forth their fire-ships into the midst of the galleons.

      Timothy Trollope received his instructions, and straightway drifted into the bay, waving his hands aloft like leaping flames. His near approach threatened to spread disaster among the ships of Spain, and at a given signal from the San Martin the dons all slipped their anchors, and in a confusion of panic endeavoured to make an escape. In the panic the great galleass of Don Hugo de Monçada ran aground on the sands and there lay basking in the sun, an unconcerned witness of the conflict that ensued between Pym and Trollope, who had now turned Spaniard, on the one side and Drusilla and her brother on the other.

      Drusilla was bent upon carrying through the mimic fight to the battle of Gravelines, and, drawing Gilbert apart, she allowed Timothy and Master Pym to sail out into the Channel for some distance before starting in pursuit. It seemed to Sir Richard Grenville as he watched them that there occurred some change in their tactics, for Gilbert Oglander, having made pretence of sinking some half-score of the Armada ships, suddenly drew off and approached a very tall tree that stood alone on a wide expanse of grass. The lad placed his hands on the tree-trunk, looked up into the leafy branches and presently began to climb upward.

      "Peradventure he intends to assail the enemy from the tops with musket and arquebus," mused Sir Richard, and he continued to watch his young friend ascending from branch to branch. Up and up he climbed till he reached one of the topmost boughs, and then he lay out upon the stout branch and crept along it towards its more slender end. Suddenly he slipped. For a moment it seemed as if he were about to fall to the ground, some thirty feet below, but he caught the branch under his right arm, and remained there suspended.

      Understanding the boy's danger, Captain Grenville quickly rose to his feet and ran towards the tree.

      "Hold fast!" he cried as he got to the foot of the tree.

      Gilbert raised himself a few inches until he could catch hold of the bough with his second hand, and there he hung, calling aloud for help.

      Sir Richard gripped the tree and was about to make the attempt to climb up to the boy's rescue, when