The skin of his face was gnarled like the bark of a tree, and seamed with a white scar which drooped over the corner of one eye and so narrowed it to half the size of the other.

He was the captain of Raleigh's flagship, the Destiny, an old seafarer, who in twenty years had lived a century of adventure.
"I wish you good evening, Sir Walter," he said in his deep voice.

"They tell me the fever is abating." The Admiral smiled wanly, and in his smile there was still a trace of the golden charm which had once won all men's hearts.
"My fever will never abate this side the grave," he said.

"Jasper, old friend, I would have you sit with me tonight.

I am like King Saul, the sport of devils.