"The hag spoke truth," Geoffrey thought, as he progressed towards his destination, Jamaica Court, "spoke only too true. If something should tear me away from my sweet Ariadne, how would she feel? Alas! that it must be so with these poor souls. Alas! Alas! Yet how else is it to be done? France has never beaten us, and never must. Even though against their will, against their happiness, all must go. They talk now of a press for the army as well as for us. Yet the sea forces need men more than those of the land. It must indeed be so."

He had arrived at Jamaica Court in Stepney by now, a little narrow place in which there were shops whose trade was principally devoted to supplying marine wants--one was a ship's chandler's; the second was a slop-shop, the owner of which announced himself as a marine store dealer; a third shopkeeper was a rope, tar and twine "merchant," while, also, there were brass-plates on two doors announcing that pilots lived within. And, at the entrance, there was a dram-shop, having for sign, "The Spanysh Galleon," with, painted rudely on a board outside, the hideous words, "Here you may have good London gin for tuppence, and be drunk for sixpence."

None of these was, however, that which Geoffrey Barry sought; instead, he made his way towards a house, over the full diamond-paned window of which, on the ground floor, there were inscribed the words, "Lewis and partner, ship's furnishers," and into this place he entered, descending two steps into the room as he did so.

"I am," he said, seeing that a man sat at a high desk by the window, with his back towards him, "the captain of the Mignonne, and I require men for His Majesty. It is told me that you can find them. Is that so?"

As he spoke the man at the desk turned round--a young man, with a short-cropped beard--while, regarding Geoffrey, he said quietly, "That is part of my affairs. How many do you want? But do you desire--well!--willing sailors or the 'kids'?"--the latter word being the usual expression for shore men who were obtained as sailors by any means, no matter how foul.

This person spoke calmly enough, yet, while he did so, there came a flush into his face as he regarded his visitor; a flush that tinged all of his cheeks that was visible and uncovered by hair.

"I must have them," the captain of the Mignonne said, "somehow, by hook or by---- Why!" he exclaimed, "who are you? I have seen you--we have met--before."

"Yes, we have," the other said, very calmly now. "At Keith's Chapel last summer. When Mr. Bufton espoused Anne Pottle. I was," and he laughed a little, "his best man."

For answer, Geoffrey stared curiously at the other across the oak counter that ran between them--stared for some moments very fixedly; then he replied:

"Ay, and so indeed you were, when the sorry rogue thought he was espousing the lady who is now my wife. Yet your beard prevented me recognising you before as one who played that part. But----"

"But," said the other, who now flushed again, and even more deeply than before. "But what?"

"If the beard you wear now prevented me from recognising you as that fellow's groomsman, it has led to my recognising you, or rather remembering your face, in some other situation. Sir, have you not been a sailor?"

"I have been a sailor," the other said, with what was truly marvellous calm, considering the feelings within him, "and once bore the King's commission."

"I felt sure. Yet I cannot recall--I cannot----"

"Let me do so for you. You formed one of the Court-martial on board the Warwick which broke me, drove me from out the sea service. Do you remember now?"

Then, in a voice as cold as ice, Geoffrey, after regarding the man before him for another minute, said--

"Ay, I remember. Your name is Lewis Granger. I remember very well. I remember the Glastonbury affair."

"I was innocent. Though found guilty."

"Innocent! Innocent! Though you restored----"

"I was innocent, I say!" the other cried loudly. "But enough! Lewis Granger is no more. The man you are talking to is called Lewis. Well, you want men! How many, and what will you pay?"

"The King's price. Two pounds for experienced sailors; two pounds for willing men; one pound for landlubbers--'kids.'"

"It is not enough. There are no more sailors to be had, and the willing hands are all taken, by you and others. As for 'kids'--yes. But at the price of sailors--my price, not theirs--three pounds. Two for them, one for me."

"I shall not pay it. There are still others hereabouts whom I can take."

"If you mean the schooner which is lying off the Marshes, you are mistaken. She flies the Dutch colours; you cannot touch her. That is not my affair, however; take her and welcome, if you will. She has my stuff on board, and--has paid for it."

"We will see for that. If the order comes, I must have her. Meanwhile, have you nothing?"

"Something. Not much, though. The schooner has gotten them all. Come and see if you choose."

"So be it. Where are they?"

For answer Lewis Granger, or, as he now said he desired to be termed, Lewis, lifted up the flap of the counter and signalled to Sir Geoffrey to come behind it. And this being done, the former led the way through a passage to the back of the house and then up a pair of stairs, arriving at a room still farther back, from which, as he and the captain of the Mignonne approached, there came an indescribable hubbub. A noise of singing and shouting, a yelling from other voices, and, in one or two cases, cries, as though some were fighting.

"One man at least in there has been a sailor," Sir Geoffrey said. "That lingo has never been learned ashore. But the others, who are they?"

"All sorts. Some good, some bad. One fellow is so desperate to get away to sea that I doubt not the runners are after him. 'Tis he who sings. Listen!" While, as he spoke, above all the hubbub there arose a voice singing--

"And was she not frank and free,
And was she not kind to me?
To lock up her cat in the cupboard,
And give her key to me--to me.
To lock up her cat in the cupboard,
And give her key--e to me--e."

"Ha! ha!" the voice cried, "to me. She gave the key to me. My God! I wonder what she's a-doing of now!"

"A-giving the key to another, you fool," answered a hoarser, more rasping voice. "Damme! didst ever know a woman who kept all for one! Drink some more and cease thy croaking."

"Ah, no! No," cried a young voice within; one soft and rich. "Ah, no! Abuse not women. They are true. True ever--or else we are sunk. Shall we not think often of them whe............