I commend Brother Martin and our sick friend to your keeping, and shall ask account of them when we meet again." I pray it may not be this side of hell, for I do not like that Spanish Abbot and his passengers, dead or living, thought Goody to himself, as he bowed him from the cabin.
A minute later the Abbot, after a few earnest, hurried words with Martin, began to descend the ladder to the boat, that, manned by his own people, was already being drawn slowly through the water.

As he did so he glanced back, and, in the clinging mist of dawn, which was almost as dense as wool, caught sight of the face of a man who had been ordered to hold the ladder, and knew it for that of Jeffrey Stokes, who had escaped from the slaying of Sir John--escaped with the damning papers that had cost his master's life.

Yes, Jeffrey Stokes, no other.

His lips shaped themselves to call out something, but before ever a syllable had passed them an accident happened.
To the Abbot it seemed as though the whole ship had struck him violently behind--so violently that he was propelled headfirst among the rowers in the boat, and lay there hurt and breathless.
"What is it ?" called the captain, who heard the noise.
"The Abbot slipped, or the ladder slipped, I know not which," answered Jeffrey gruffly, staring at the toe of his sea-boot.

"At least he is safe enough in the boat now," and, turning, he vanished aft into the mist, muttering to himself-- "A very good kick, though a little high.