Instantly it became the face of an old and very weary man.
The sailor Jasper Lauval--for so he now spelled his name on the rare
occasions when he wrote it-- thought he was about to sleep and was rising
to withdraw, when Raleigh's eyes opened.
"Stay with me," he commanded. "Your silence cheers me. If you leave me I
have thoughts that might set me following Tom Keymis. Kit Marlowe again! I
cannot get rid of his accursed jingles. How do they go?
"'Hell hath no limite, nor is circumscribed
In one self-place, for where we are is hell
And where hell is there must we ever be.'"
Lauval stretched out a cool hand and laid it on the Admiral's hot forehead.
He had a curiously steadfast gaze for all his drooping left eye. Raleigh
caught sight of the withered arm.
"Tell me of your life, Jasper. How came you by such a mauling? Let the tale
of it be like David's harping and scatter my demons."
The seaman sat himself in a chair. "That was my purpose, Sir Walter. For
the tale is in some manner a commentary on your late words.
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