CHAPTER I

On the shore of Roanoke, under the eastern cliff, a young Indian stood alone, listening. Tall and straight as a spear, his dark form, undraped, save at the loins, suggested, in the moment of immobility, a bronze statue, fresh from a master-hand. The attentive poise, the keen, expectant eyes, the head thrown back, implied in every muscle and outline a mystery, for the whisper of whose voice he waited breathless. But, as the desired sound was not forthcoming, the spell broke suddenly. He moved, and the all-unconscious pose was lost in activity. With light steps that seemed to fall upon an ethereal roadway, even less solid than the shifting sands, he went to a copse of trees beneath the cliff and, bending forward, scanned the long vines and grasses that ran wild beneath his feet. Through the canopy of green above him a host of sun-rays made their way, and, separating into a myriad golden motes, played in and out amid the maze of cedar-roots that met his eyes. A breeze, laden with the fragrance of numberless shrubs and vagrant flowers, stirred the straight black strands of his hair, to which the sun lent a lustrous gloss like the sheen of a raven’s wing. Was it only the air, fresh and warm with midsummer balm, that filled him to the flood with ardent life? Was it merely the sun that kindled those lights in his eyes, and only the free flux of animal spirits that possessed him? The eagerness of his quest gave answer, and even the song-birds, now in silence watching him from high above, seemed to divine that here was no intruding fowler, no mere hawk more powerful than themselves.

Again he paused, listening, and now the intent look changed to an expression of apprehension and dismay. The statue of Hope was transformed to a figure of Alarm; the pleasure of seeking to the disquietude of a search in vain.

Suddenly, however, from the branch of an oak-tree, in the heart of whose shadow he stood, a voice came down to him, blithe, merry, triumphant, and the voice, for all its melody, was not a bird’s. “Dark Eye, the White Doe is here.” He looked up, smiling, and somewhat mortified, but not long, for in a minute the maid, who had outwitted him in their game of hide-and-seek, stood on the ground, her laughing eyes and words bantering him without mercy. “Oh, what availeth the speed and craft of Dark Eye when the White Doe hides?”

“Virginia,” he said, pronouncing the name with difficulty, “thou art no white doe, but a spirit of the woods.”

As a description of her appearance his observation was not amiss. The little Virginia Dare, a child no longer, seemed rather a spirit than a maid. Yet in the gentle curves of her form and the expressive depth of her hazel eyes there was already a promise of maturity. They were a pair of rovers, these two, without guile, without one marring trace of worldly comprehension, without that indefinable, but ever-apparent, disingenuousness of face and voice that comes when the fruit of knowledge has been tasted; they were deer, revelling in their forest freedom, and sea-gulls, loving the water. Sylvanites, barbarians, brother and sister, going and coming as they willed, they were always together, and, as yet, in no way conscious of themselves.

And the guardian angel was Eleanor. To her the freedom of their companionship was a source of constant joy. Had she not done well to leave their Eden unbounded by convention? Could she not thus in a measure regain what she herself had lost, and allow Virginia the happiness which had been withheld from her? “Yes,” she answered, in one of her reveries, “it is well.” And from the day of that first decision, Virginia, always clad in white draperies, loose and clinging, went barefoot, hatless, and unrestrained. The years of restriction were yet in the future.

Indeed, as the two now stood together on the shore—primordial beings, all unblemished by a past—that future, though approaching, seemed far away.

“Come,” said Virginia, after she had taunted him sufficiently to please her whim, “you so nearly found me that I will grant reward for the tedious quest.”

She went to the base of the cliff, while he, enchanted by her every motion, and striving to guess the nature of the guerdon, followed her in silent wonder. Near the cliff she paused and took a shell, pink, shallow, and translucent, from an old wampum-pouch that, in their childhood, he had given her. Next, she plucked from a vine that rambled down the cliff-side a cluster of grapes, green as their own leaves, and almost bursting. “There,” she said, casting them on a strip of mossy ground; “now wait,” with which she trod upon the cluster with her bare feet; then, as their luscious juice ran freely, held them aloft, and the shell beneath, so that into it the sparkling drops fell one by one until they overflowed the brim.

And now, after touching the nepenthe to her lips, she held out the delicate chalice to him and bade him drink.

As though participating in some magic that would presently enchant them both, he tasted, and would have emptied the shell delightedly, but on a sudden he started and, letting fall the fairy cup, pointed to the sea. With a cry of astonishment, Virginia and her comrade ran to a winding path which led to a higher vantage-point, and in a moment they stood upon a headland, side by side, he transfixed, she trembling with excitement.

“’Tis a ship,” she said, breathlessly. “I can just remember the white wings. In one of these ships my grandfather sailed away, and they say that I saw him go. In another went Master Kyt, but I saw not the wings that bore him from us. I wonder if Master Kyt is returning? How many years have passed since he departed?” She held up her hand and counted them on her tapering fingers. “’Tis five—”

But for once the Indian was not heeding her. “Look,” he said, “there is not one ship only.”

Turning again to face the sea, she saw two distinct white clouds, one in the middle distance, one just surmounting the horizon.

“Come,” suggested Virginia, “let us give the signal to our people who fish in the sound.” So saying, she led him along the palisade until they reached Vytal’s deserted hut, near which the old culverin still remained on guard and ready-primed. “This is the way,” she commanded—“Captain Vytal showed me,” and, when he had obeyed her instructions, a deafening roar went seaward from the land. “Oh, ’tis a terrible sound,” cried Virginia, covering her ears with her hands; “but that is enough, and now let us go down to meet the townsmen as they land and tell them the tidings before they spy those wings themselves.” As she started away, first one, then another musket-shot, each fainter than the last, answered her signal from the south. With a long succession of alarums, the fishermen repeated the first startling report back and back even to Croatan.

By the time Virginia and the Indian reached the northern shore several barges were already within sight.

Vytal, leading in a canoe, was the first to land.

“Two ships are coming!” cried Virginia. “Where is my mother?” But the soldier strode past her, making no reply, his eyes ablaze with a light that long ago had left them as though forever.

Hugh Rouse, stepping ashore from the next canoe, leaned forward from his great height and seized Virginia by the arm as though to crush her with a single grasp. “What were those words of thine?” he demanded, with unprecedented ferocity. “Speak them again!”

“A ship is coming,” she said, half fearfully; “nay, two.” But the last words were unheard, and the giant, turning to face the many approaching barges, roared out, “A sail!”

“A sail! A sail! A sail!” was the wild cry which, repeated again and again, with increasing frenzy, went ringing from the foremost craft to the very last. And, before long, the headland on the eastern coast was overrun by mad men and women who, with tears streaming from their eyes and kerchiefs frantically waving, gave free vent to their overwhelming joy. The floodgates of emotion, so long forced to withstand a mighty strain, had been shattered in an instant; and now the torrent, tempestuous, whirling, wild, upleaping, uncontrollable, burst from their very souls.

Salvation was at hand.

All believed so, and the belief possessed them utterly, from those who stood at the edge of the headland transfixedly gazing seaward, to those who shouted with gladness, and the others who, standing yet farther back, bowed their heads while the preacher voiced their thanksgiving to God. In the foremost line, silent and rigid, stood Vytal; in the last, Eleanor Dare, with her daughter, praying. But soon Virginia, slipping her hand from her mother’s, rejoined the Indian, to chide him laughingly for having let fall the shell, which now lay in fragments far below. For to these two alone the sails meant little, seeming no more than the wings to which they had likened them. To the White Doe and Dark Eye there was no far-distant home ever calling for its own. Unlike their English neighbors, these two were no foster-children, but inheritors of the land by right of birth. This was their country, this their home. Only here could their happiness mature, and seemingly only apart from the colony could they live as their hearts desired. For that uncertain, wavering shyness and sign of an uncomprehended fear, which long ago Marlowe had noticed, still softened Virginia’s eyes with a mystic veil. She was not beloved by the settlers save as a pet bird whose grace and beauty they admired. For she lacked the magnetism of her mother, yet received, perhaps, more frequent praise. There was still that difference between Eleanor and Virginia which Marlowe had defined as the difference between spirituality and mysticism. The one was in all ways a solace, the other pretty to look upon, but never restful, and this lack of restfulness, more than all else, explains her unpopularity in the settlement of laborers.

To-day, feeling more restless than ever, “Look,” she said, “Roger Prat shall pipe to us.” With which she led her companion by the hand through the babbling throng to Roger, who, arm-in-arm with his bear, was swaggering here and there, discoursing bombastically on the approaching ships, as though he himself deserved thanks for the benefit.

“How now, Goodman Prat,” inquired Virginia, as they joined him; “art going to leave thy flute silent at such a time?”

He turned and, with head on one side, surveyed her narrowly. “The pipe pipeth no more,” he said, “for the necessary wind hath gone out of my heart.”

“Lungs,” corrected Virginia, with a silvery laugh.

“Lungs,” he assented, gravely; “but, White Doe, see here!” He pointed to a small tabor that hung by his side. “I have brought this drum wherewith to celebrate. Hark to Roger’s tattoo!” And, drawing from his belt a pair of drum-sticks, he marched about, with a rat-a-tat-tat-tat-too. “Sing, ho, the taborin, little taborin,” he cried, “merry taborin,” and his sticks danced furiously on the drum. He was thinking of England, and of the chance that he might return to forgive Gyll Croyden.

But Virginia, pouting, turned away. “That is not music,” she said to the Indian. “He is changed.”

Hers was the only frown that, until now, had crossed a face that morning. Hilarity laid hold on the jubilant throng, and turned all save the most serious ones to children.

Musket-shots rang out in celebration; cheer on cheer filled the air, until, growing hoarse with their incessant huzzahs, planters, soldiers, traders, wives, daughters, sons, and even lonely widows and orphans, still kept waving their arms to the distant ships in silence. And still Roger, with King Lud in his wake, went the round, now gesticulating in the air with both of his drum-sticks, next pointing with one to the sails, and again setting the pair ajig on his tabor in clamorous acclaim.

Suddenly, however, catching sight of Vytal’s face, he desisted and hastened to the captain’s side. Vytal spoke in a low voice that none but Prat and Hugh Rouse might catch the tenor of his words. “An I mistake not, those ships are not our friends.” Roger and Hugh turned, in dismay, to look once more across the water.

Rouse, shading his eyes with a great hand, swore roundly beneath his breath.

“Body o’ me!” exclaimed Prat, who for once could say no more.

Vytal had spoken truly. For now that the ships came slowly within range of the watchers’ vision, the fact became obvious to one and another on the headland that these were not vessels of English build.

Gradually a desperate silence assumed sway over the colonists, while they advanced anxiously to the cliff’s edge. “They are enemies,” whispered one.

“Ay, ’fore Heaven, they are not of friendly countenance.”

Then a voice rose trembling in a high key, and Ananias, terror-struck, covered his eyes. “Oh, my God! the two are Spaniards from St. Augustine. Look! Look! One is the Madre de Dios!”

Vytal turned quickly to the settlers. “Yes, they are Spaniards,” he said, harshly, “and one is the Madre de Dios. She hath been defeated once; ’tis for us to sink her now.”

A low groan ran through the throng. Alarm had stifled hope. But, as none gave answer, Vytal spoke again. “Let those who are afraid return and seek safety at Croatan. I and my men will meet them.”

“Yea,” laughed Prat, “right gladly meet them.”

But already half the number had deserted, and, led by Ananias, were now stampeding toward their barges on the southern shore. Only the fighting-men and Eleanor remained on the headland. Suddenly an ejaculation from Prat caused Vytal to turn. The foremost of the Spanish vessels stood tentatively with flapping sails, as though undecided, and in another moment a long, rakish-looking craft, propelled by several rowers, had left the ships, and was making its way to the shore. In the prow an officer, gaudily dressed, stood erect, waving aloft a pike, from the blade of which a white flag floated lightly on the breeze. Slowly the long-boat drew nearer, until its stem swished on the sand. Then, stepping out, the Spanish officer, wearing no visible arms, turned to one and another with a lordly insolence, and finally accosted Vytal in English. “I am the admiral,” he said, “of our little fleet, and would speak with a person in command.”

“I,” said Vytal, “govern the colony.”

On hearing this the Spaniard started perceptibly and scrutinized the bleak, impassive face with heightened interest. “May I inquire,” he asked, with a curious mingling of autocratic condescension and true respect, “concerning your Excellency’s name?”

“’Tis the Wolf,” replied Roger Prat, impulsively, before Vytal could answer.

The admiral smiled. “Ah, the Wolf! ’tis well for me I seek only an armistice at your hands—a short and friendly truce. We are in sore straits. Having but recently escaped wreckage, we are now like to die of thirst and starvation. I have here the usual conditions of an armistice, which I submit for your consideration,” and he handed Vytal a sheet of paper which conveyed, in English, his proposal:

Vytal, having read the document aloud, handed it back to its author. “This hath been quickly framed,” he said, scanning narrowly the other’s face; “or else it was writ before you sighted Roanoke.”

The Spaniard laughed uneasily. “I perceive,” he said, “that his Excellency, the Wolf, hath eyes which read a man’s soul. Yet I myself indited these proposals at seeing your company on the headland. ’Twas in no way preconceived, and that is truth.”

“How many men do you command?” asked Vytal, with slow deliberation.

“Threescore soldiers,” was the quick response.

“’Tis well,” said Vytal, “and we are trebly strong.”

“Trebly!” ejaculated the admiral, unguardedly.

“Nay,” observed Vytal, inwardly numbering the Indians as allies. “Much more than trebly.”

The Spaniard covered his surprise with a yawn. “I trust you will make haste,” he said, “for while you delay we starve.”

“So be it,” assented Vytal, curtly, and turned on his heel.

The admiral bowed and withdrew to his long-boat.

“’Tis our only chance,” said Vytal to Eleanor. “We must arm every man, red and white, that, in the event of treachery, we may die fighting.”

“Think you, then,” she asked, anxiously, “their force is so much the stronger?”

“Beyond doubt, madam, they far outnumber us.” His face grew tense, and for a moment almost desperate. “If they gain knowledge of our weakness, we are lost.”

He spoke hurriedly to Rouse. “Go instantly to Croatan. Ask Manteo to bring his tribesmen here without delay. Say that I have sent you. Speak, then, to our own people. Adjure them, in God’s name, to proceed hither within the hour. Make known the conditions of the armistice. If fear still deters them, and they suspect treachery on the part of our enemies, make no threat, but say that only within this palisado can we hope for safety. At Croatan they could not possibly withstand invaders. Here the fortifications are ready built. Let the people bring all available provisions for a siege, yet mention not the word ‘siege.’ Say merely that until the Spanish depart we remain here to trade with them.” He turned to Prat. “Do you, Roger, go with Hugh, and by your wit compel them to obey. My whole trust is in you both. Make haste!”

Without a word they started off, the giant with great strides, the vagabond with rolling gait, and for once not garrulous, but genuinely grave.

Vytal, returning to the headland, spoke to Dyonis Harvie, who stood near by. “You, Dyonis, assume command of the fortress, where the women and children will look to you for their defence.”

For many minutes Eleanor and Vytal stood in silence, motionless. From far away came the sound of the surf droning on the beach, with which, from beyond the screen of woods between them and the town, a low hum of preparation was blent monotonously. At last they walked to the brow of the cliff whereon stood the watchful culverin, and looked down at the lengthening shadows on the shore.

Small groups of Spaniards and Englishmen were gathered together here and there busy in trade.

“They buy and sell most peacefully,” observed Eleanor.

“Yes,” said Vytal, “they traffic as friends.”

CHAPTER II

On the fourth night after the ships’ arrival, the colonists and Hatteras Indians, all of whom, at Vytal’s command, had come from Croatan, congressed near the fortress of Roanoke. In the centre of the square a camp-fire of great logs and dried branches roared and crackled cheerfully, while encircling the blaze sat red men and white, some half prone in sleep, others upright and talking. Somewhat apart from the main gathering, and just beyond range of the firelight, were Vytal and Manteo, while, midway between them and a number of sleeping soldiers, sat Virginia Dare and her Indian comrade. Not far away lay Hugh Rouse, sprawled near the outer border of embers, and snoring loudly, while next to him sat Roger Prat, blinking at the fire. In the fortress most of the women and children, under Dyonis Harvie’s protection, were slumbering peacefully, while Dyonis himself sat yawning in the doorway. Each of the three entrances to the town was guarded by one or more pickets, well armed. At the northern gateway, which led to Vytal’s cabin, a single sentry stood alert; at the southern and nearest, by which Eleanor had made egress that night when Frazer and Towaye had captured her, another soldier kept careful watch; at the main portal on the eastern side two sentinels paced to and fro with muskets loaded. Furthermore, a body of twelve arquebusiers lay far below on the beach, to make sure that from the Spanish ships no landing was attempted.

To trade at night, or leave the town without Vytal’s permission, was forbidden. And perhaps only one person at Roanoke rebelled inwardly against the latter restriction. This was Virginia Dare, whose nature demanded absolute freedom. “Oh, tell me, Dark Eye,” she said, as the silence and bondage became unbearable, “why are we compelled to remain here like prisoners?”

“It is the will of our father, the Wolf,” replied the Indian. “He seeks to protect his children.”

She made an impatient gesture. “Come, Dark Eye, let us ask Roger Prat if we may not go down to the sea for another shell and for my father. Dost know he strangely disappeared to-day and has not been seen again?”

“Thy father disappeared?” exclaimed the Indian.

“Yes, within the forest. But come!” and together they joined the soldier. “Goodman Prat, I pray you give us liberty. Not all the armies of the world can find us an we hide. There are caves, ravines, arbors—”

“Yes,” interposed Prat, dreamily, “arbors, grape-arbors.”

“Come,” she persisted, “take us past the centronel.”

With a jerk of his head, as though awaking from reverie, Roger looked up at her. “Nay, White Doe, it is impossible. Will you not sit here and comfort me? I am depressed.”

Poutingly, she granted his request, and, patting the grass beside her, indicated an adjacent seat for the Indian. “How now, Roger?” said she. “Why so glum and owlish? Is ’t because your friend King Lud is absent?”

For a moment Prat surveyed her in silence, rolling his eyes, until at length, “Nay,” he replied, “I am well accustomed to his Majesty’s peregrinations. Oftentimes for a whole week he roves, and never a sight of him. ’Tis but three days now since he went a-nutting. Nay, nay, ’tis not o’ the bear I think—not o’ the bear.”

“Of what, then?”

But, giving no answer, he only blinked and blinked at the fire, so mournfully that many, noticing his look, long remembered it.

Vytal watched him silently.

“He hath even forgot,” observed Manteo, “to smoke his pipe of uppowac.”

The soldier made no response, but asked, finally: “Art sleepy, Manteo?”

“Nay, most wakeful.”

“I, too, am so; but sith for two nights no sleep hath come to me, ’tis essential that I rest. Do you keep watch, and, if aught occurs beyond the ordinary, arouse me instantly.” Whereupon, stretching himself at full length, Vytal folded his arms across his eyes.

Nearly all were now lying asleep, and the fire burned very low. Only Virginia Dare, Dark Eye, and Roger Prat seemed wide-awake.

The low tread of the sentinel at the nearest gate told them that safety was assured. The stillness of the town, profound and all-pervading, was broken at rare intervals only by the screech of an owl or the low murmur of voices, while the dreary monotone of the distant surf seemed as it were to accompany the dirge of silence.

Suddenly, however, the sentry’s voice, in a low challenge, caught the quick ear of Virginia, but, as Prat turned apprehensively, she laughed aloud. Then Roger himself shook with merriment. “Body o’ me! he hath challenged King Lud, and, I’ll warrant, is now calling himself a fool. Behold his Majesty!” And, sure enough, there was the well-known bulky form loping on all fours through the entrance. As it came near the circle of firelight the cumbrous shadow flattened out.

“He’s not overjoyed to see you,” laughed Virginia, and she would have gone forward to pat the shaggy head, but Prat restrained her.

“Nay, wait. ’Tis a trick of his. He knows well he hath been a deserter, and is full of shame. Look you—his eyes are shut; the prankish monarch pretends to be indifferently asleep. Now take no notice, but out of the corner of your eye watch him. He always comes to me in the end, an I pay no attention to his whimsicality.”

Virginia, pleased at any diversion, cast a sidelong glance at the long snout which lay tranquilly between the paws, more in the position of a dog’s nose than a bear’s. “For once,” she observed, “his Majesty is not sniffing at us.”

“’Tis his game,” declared Prat. “Now watch, and I’ll turn my back impertinently.”

For some time the huge pate lay motionless. “He’s really asleep,” said Virginia.

“That may be,” allowed Roger, “for I doubt not his three days’ roaming has wearied him considerably. He’s a cub no longer, and has, I’ll swear, lumbago, like myself. Let him lie. But here’s a great brute who’s slept too long.” And Roger poked Hugh Rouse viciously with his foot. Yawning, the giant rolled over, and surveyed them stupidly. “Numskull!” exclaimed Prat, “thank the Lord we look not to you for protection. I’d sooner trust King Lud, though for the moment even he’s a-dreaming.”

Virginia, amused at his raillery, cast another look behind her. “Nay,” she whispered. “See, he has crawled nearer.”

“Oh, has he, indeed!” said Roger. “I’ll give him his deserts in time. But first this dwarfling here must explain himself.” He glanced down at Rouse. “How now, sirrah?—think you we are safe at home in England? Do your weighty dreams increase our numbers, that are in reality so desperate small? Think you the Spanish force could not swallow us up as thy great maw would engulf a herring? Poor fool, sleep on in thy fond delusion,” and, raising his brows in feigned contempt, Roger turned to the silent Indian and Virginia. “Now the lord chancellor shall have the honor of punishing his renegade monarch right merrily.”

He rose, turned, and swaggered toward the ungainly shadow.

As if the animal had readily divined his intention, the great nose shifted now this way, now that, irresolutely. “See!” cried Roger, “he creeps away like a beaten hound,” and Virginia saw the bowlder-like shadow rolling off toward the palisade.

“Villain!” cried Prat, “come hither,” with which he ran forward wrathfully.

But just as he was about to cuff the upraised snout with the palm of his hand, the awkward figure rose, and a glistering light shone for an instant in the fire-glare. With a groan Roger stumbled, and would have fallen, but now a mass of dark fur was flung at his feet, and a man, who had emerged from beneath it, started, quick as a flash, toward the gateway. Uttering a loud oath of pain and anger, the soldier sprang across the bearskin, and, although mortally wounded, contrived to grasp the stranger. Then, with a great effort, for at each moment the blood spurted from his breast, he threw his captive heavily to the ground. Again and again his antagonist’s short blade flashed and buried itself in his arm; yet, flinging himself bodily on the writhing form, Roger held the spy a prisoner.

Even as he fell, a cry from Manteo awoke Vytal, while the others, startled by the commotion, leaped to their feet in wild confusion. Then, above the turmoil, rose Vytal’s voice piercingly: “’Tis naught!” For a single glance at the struggling pair and the empty bearskin had told him that a spy was caught.

As the excited colonists gathered about the grappling couple, Roger rolled over in a swoon, and Vytal looked down at the captive, who was in an instant held firmly by Manteo and Rouse.

“It is Frazer,” he said, calmly. “Bind him, and take him to the fort.”

“Nay,” was the prisoner’s rejoinder, in a low, musical voice, “’tis his Highness, the Crown Prince.”

CHAPTER III

As Vytal turned from Frazer his face changed. The look of cold hate gave way to an even deeper expression of sadness, which, mellowing his bleak visage as the sunset glow softens the outlines of a rock, bespoke tender concern and apprehension.

Around Roger a crowd had gathered, to the centre of which Vytal gravely made his way.

The soldier lay prone and silent, the bearskin, which had been folded, forming a pillow for his head. He had evidently regained consciousness, yet from his bared chest a stream of blood welled slowly. Frazer’s weapon had pierced a lung.

Beside him knelt Hugh Rouse, imploring him to speak. “Call me names, Roger; berate me an you will for sleeping; but say ’tis no mortal wound.”

A chirurgeon who stood near by shook his head. “’Tis, indeed, mortal,” he declared.

And Roger’s eyes rolling up to the chirurgeon’s face seemed to repeat, “Yes, mortal.”

As the firelight was now obscured by the crowd, several soldiers, snatching resinous branches from the blaze, held them aloft to look once more upon their comrade’s face. Vytal bent over the dying man. “Dost know me, Roger?”

Slowly the lips parted as the round head shifted restlessly. “Yea, well; and always I shall know you. Body o’ me! not know Captain Vytal—I, Prat, who have followed him through thick and thin? ’Tis impossible.”

He raised his head and smiled at Rouse. “And you, too, my dwarfish soul—how could I mistake that shock o’ flaxen hair?” He passed a hand over the giant’s head affectionately; then, rising with pain to one elbow, turned again to Vytal.

“You have saved us,” said the captain, “but at what a cost!”

Prat made a deprecatory gesture. “Ay, thank God! saved you,” he replied; “yet have a care. This Frazer hath heard me prating to Rouse anent our weakness. You’ll look to it, no doubt, he conveys not the information to that peacock, the Spanish admiral. But, ah me, the young wild-slip hath killed King Lud. My last pet is departed. Oh, why did I not know his Majesty would never crawl away like a whipped cur? In troth ’twas most unnatural. Yet the darkness favored him—the darkness—i’ faith ’tis even darker now.” With an effort, he put a hand to his belt, and, drawing out the flute that for so long had been silent, held it to his lips. But, without sounding a single strain, he let it fall with one of his old grimaces. “Nay,” he muttered, “not a note; ne’ertheless, when I’m gone, ‘Be merry, friends; a fig for care and a fig for woe; be merry, friends.’” He sank back exhausted and closed his eyes.

“He is dead,” groaned Hugh.

But Roger, with a drawn smile, eyed him sideways. “Not dead by any means, poor dullard. No, not yet dead.”

At this his face brightened for a moment, and he groped in the breast of his doublet near the wound. Several fine threads of gold were woven round his fingers, but no one saw them. “Take nothing from me,” he said; and then, withdrawing his hand, smiled almost bitterly. “’Tis just as well I die, for my life, as the song saith, hath been lived to ‘please one and please all,’ everlastingly ‘please one and please all, so pipeth the crow sitting upon a wall.’ Welladay, let the crow pipe on, but Roger pipeth no longer.”

His bulging eyes flashed suddenly in the cressets’ glare. “Nay, I’m no piper, but a fighting-man,” whereupon, rising once more with a great effort to one elbow, he drew his broadsword and for a moment held it aloft. Then slowly, as the flame died out of his eyes, he pointed with it toward the palisade. “Bury me over there,” he said, eagerly, “beyond the town—over there in the glade, Captain Vytal, near the western shore. ’Tis where she danced, you’ll remember, and King Lud cut capers before the Indians. There I’ll lie in peace, and think o’ the old mirthfulness, and sometimes the sound of your guns will come to remind me I’m a soldier.” He held out the heavy blade to Vytal. “Lay it unsheathed beside me, captain; also the flute and uppowac pipe.” Once again his head fell to the bearskin pillow. “You might shroud me,” he added, feebly, “with all that remains of poor King Lud.”

“It shall be done as you require,” said Vytal, hoarsely.

And now there was silence save for the light rustle through the forest of a new-come breeze, which fanned the tearful cheeks of the watchers and set the many torches flickering so that their light wavered uncertainly across the dying man. Roger’s eyes were closed, yet once more his lips parted. “‘Be merry, friends,’” and, with an old, familiar smile, he died.

When at last day dawned a striking scene was visible on the shore.

In the prow of his long-boat, not over twenty feet from the beach, stood the Spanish admiral, while from the brink of the water Vytal spoke to him.

Farther up the strand twelve musketeers were ranged in line with weapons aimed, not at the long-boat’s crew, but at a single figure that stood against the cliff. This form, slight and graceful, was nevertheless distinctly masculine in bearing. With eyes blindfolded, mouth gagged, and hands fettered behind his back, the man awaited his fate calmly.

But the fate was yet unknown. The musketeers stolidly awaited the last signal from their leader, and the signal was delayed.

“You perceive,” said Vytal to the admiral, “that your friend’s life is in imminent danger. At a word from me he falls, but at the word I desire from you he lives and shall be saved.”

The Spaniard bowed haughtily. “Name your conditions,” and with a sweep of their oars the rowers drew nearer to the shore. Vytal turned and glanced upward at the headland, from which the colonists were looking down in silent curiosity. Foremost of all stood Eleanor Dare watching him.

He faced about again to address the admiral. “The condition is this: that you abandon to us the Madre de Dios in exchange for the prisoner. Your spy hath broken our truce. There are but two available indemnities—the one your ship, the other his life as forfeit. I bid you choose.”

An ironical smile crossed the Spaniard’s face. “Do you consider his life of so great value?” he asked, banteringly.

“Nay,” said Vytal, “I but seek to estimate your own valuation. This fellow hath boasted of a royal guardian—even the King of Spain.”

The admiral bit his lip. “But how am I to make certain that you act in good faith?”

Vytal turned sharply to the musketeers and raised his hand, while his lips parted. The marksmen’s eyes came down closer to their aim, and there was a concerted click.

“Stay!” cried the Spaniard, in alarm. “I agree to your proviso.”

Vytal’s hand fell, and the sharp-shooters stood at rest. “To-night,” said the soldier, “we shall be ready to man your vessel.”

Slowly the long-boat withdrew, and now Eleanor, having come down from the headland, stood at Vytal’s side. Her face was flushed with excited hope and admiration. “You have worked our salvation, captain.”

“Nay,” he returned, harshly, “not yet.”

CHAPTER IV

The stern discipline of that evening was broken by one of the colonists, who, having earlier entered the town from the western wood, now reeled through the streets, crazed by inebriety and fear. As the gates were not yet closed, he was permitted once more to leave the enclosure, which he did by the eastern entrance. Beyond the palisade he paused for a moment, swaying heavily, and gazed down at the shore.

The moon, in its first quarter, was sinking behind a film of gray clouds. A few traders, Spanish and English, stood bargaining on the beach. The two vessels, without lights, lay motionless at anchor. A number of canoes were hauled up on the sand, their birch-bark sides shining like silver in the moonlight. The man, looking up and down the coast, recognized Vytal’s gaunt figure in the distance, and he realized hazily that the soldier was inspecting the coast-guard before returning to the town.

But the blear eyes wandered back to that line of silver craft, and now, with uncertain gait, the lonely man descended from the headland. Then, with a wave of his hand to the contemptuous traders, he stepped into one of the canoes, and, unsteadily seating himself, made his way along the coast with wavering sweeps of his paddle.

On coming at last to that part of the beach where Vytal was giving instructions to the arquebusiers, he paused, and, keeping his canoe several paces from shore, spoke quickly to the soldier. “I am going,” he said, pointing with his paddle to the eastward, “away, anywhere, far away.”

Vytal turned in surprise. “You’re mad.”

The other smiled absently, and, waving his wooden blade, held it out toward the forest. “Yes, delightfully mad. Devilish Winginas over there—saw them my own self when I started to go away to the mainland. Long line of red demons waiting—demons ’stremely like those Ralph Contempt described—all waiting to capture the town. You’d better have a care and come away. I’m going away—anywhere—any place whatever, out into the darkness—through the inlet—over the sea—away from it all, from all the danger and trouble, all the nightmares and remorse. I’ve spent my life retreating, now I’ll retreat once more—once more.” The moonlight, falling across his face, showed a look so despairing, haunted, and yet drunkenly cheerful, that for a moment Vytal stood transfixed, staring at him, as at an apparition of the night. The bloodshot eyes were wide open and wet with maudlin tears; the hair was dishevelled and damp with the sweat of terror. Yet even now there was a certain weird beauty in the face, a peculiar and exquisite refinement. But from behind the beauty a despicable soul looked out of the eyes, so that even Vytal shuddered as he saw their glance.

Courage stood face to face with naked Fear.

With a look of disgust, Vytal glanced about for another boat, but none was near them.

Slowly the canoe drifted from the shore, its occupant bidding farewell to Vytal with a laugh that died in a wail. “Return, or I shoot,” said the soldier, sternly.

But at this the paddle splashed frantically, and the canoe, now whirling about, now darting out to sea, went farther and farther from the land.

Vytal, for once, hesitated. To shoot was perhaps to kill the man, while to refrain from shooting was almost to countenance his suicide. As a compromise between these two alternatives the soldier took an arquebus from one of his men and fired in the air.

For a second the canoe paused in its outward course, then shot far seaward, and the man, wildly waving his paddle, either in triumph or expostulation, staggered to his feet. At this the frail craft so careened and trembled that before he could stand fully erect a torrent of water rushed in across the gunwale, and Vytal, aghast on the shore, just distinguished his figure, as, with a piercing cry, he tottered, fell sideways, and sank beneath the surface.

“He cannot swim,” said one of the arquebusiers, “any better than a gobbet of lead.”

Hastily Vytal waded into the water, and, although there were no traces of the unfortunate drunkard, would have struck out toward the upturned craft, had not a deep voice at this instant restrained him. Turning, he saw Hugh Rouse standing on the shore, beckoning to him apprehensively.

“Captain, a force of Winginas attacks the western palisado.”

Vytal turned to one of the musketeers. “Bring hither a canoe and search for his body. He is drowned in the swift undertow;” then, with a last searching glance across the silver water, Vytal retraced his steps to the beach.

“To the town, Hugh! I follow immediately.” He turned to the arquebusiers. “It rests with you,” he said, “to hold the Spaniards back from land. Ask no reinforcements. We cannot spare them. Nor yet seek to retreat within the enclosure. You will be refused admittance. Your post is here. Knowing that some of you are the men who would have mutinied on the fly-boat long ago, I give you this opportunity to retrieve yourselves,” and, leaving them, he made his way speedily to the town.

As he passed within the main portal it was closed and barricaded, Rouse and a score of the ablest soldiers being left to defend it.

He stopped at the fortress, before which Dyonis Harvie stood on guard, heavily armed. Eleanor was in the doorway. Seeing Vytal, she came out into the square and spoke to him. “Is it well?”

“An hour will show,” he answered, quietly.

“Then you fear treachery?”

“No, I do not fear it.”

“But you suspect it?”

“Nay, madam, I am fully aware that a general attack is intended. A force of Winginas already threatens our western wall.”

She hesitated, seeming loath to speak her mind, yet compelled by a certain distrust to make known her anxiety. “I hope,” she said, as though half to herself, “that none of the colonists will seek to leave by the Madre de Dios until the issue is certain.” Her voice faltered. “It is my duty to tell you that Ananias plans—”

But Vytal shook his head gravely. “Mistress Eleanor, Ananias Dare is dead!”

“Dead!” she gasped, in a vague, incredulous bewilderment. “Dead!”

“Yes; drowned.”

A high flush of crimson came to her cheeks and suffused itself quickly about her temples; then as suddenly died, leaving her wan and pallid.

Vytal, averting his face, while in silence she re-entered the fortress, went slowly to Dyonis Harvie. “Is the prisoner well guarded?”

“Ay, most carefully—in a cell below the fort.”

“Your main duties are to protect the women and keep him there;” with which Vytal turned quickly away toward the western palisade.

Save for the light of the stars and of a wavering flambeau here and there, the town was in darkness. And but for the occasional reports of muskets, as the inland pickets fired into the forest at an unseen foe, no unusual sound broke the silence of night.

Yet each minute of that night, winged or halt, slow or quick-fleeting, was to every man big with import and terrible endeavor. The very air that filled their lungs seemed impregnated with suspense.

Here was no camp-fire and lounging throng in the main square, but only gloom and solitude, for the colony, broken up into small commands, stood in alert attitudes, with straining eyes, at every entrance.

The armistice was apparently at an end, yet some few consoled themselves with the fond delusion that the Winginas’ intermittent attack had not been inspired by the Spaniards. One or two of these sought Manteo to question him concerning the numbers of his hereditary foemen, but Manteo was not in the town. And, furthermore, not one of his tribe could be found save a few of the women. The Hatteras Indians had disappeared, men and boys, mysteriously.

“They have deserted us,” said some of the colonists, despairingly; but the leaders knew that, by Vytal’s command, Manteo held his men in waiting far within the western forest. Thus at a signal the friendly tribesmen could be called upon to fall on the Winginas’ rear and decimate them from an ambush.

Yet Vytal rightly conjectured that this attack of the hostile savages was a Spanish feint to draw off his soldiers from the coast; and even now, as he concentrated the pickets in a body to meet a concerted onrush from the woods, a great clamor of arquebuses and heavy pieces arose from the shore.

The Spaniards were landing. A general assault had begun from land and sea. The sound of cannonading, continual and deafening, came from the water, while from the woods the whir and whistle of arrows proclaimed a more insidious attempt.

Vytal returned to the main entrance. It was already besieged. The coast-guard had been overwhelmed. Despite their first stubborn stand, they had gone down like corn-stalks before a hurricane. There was no resisting the stampede. But the gateway, defended by Rouse and his unflinching score, still remained a barrier. Through innumerable loop-holes the defenders had thrust their fire-arms; and now an incessant volley of lead poured out from behind the palisade like a torrent of hail driven sideways by the wind. Still more effective, however, were the culverins on two high flankers that stretched out on both sides of the entrance. These cumbrous weapons, incessantly vomiting huge missiles, so enfiladed the aggressors that a sortie was deemed expedient.

Rouse let the gate swing back quickly, and Vytal, leading a dozen men, sought, by the sheer vigor and unexpectedness of his attack, to press the enemy back over the cliff which they had scaled. This seemed his only chance. By so bold a move he intended to convey the impression that large numbers within the town only awaited a signal to reinforce him. For, although Frazer, disguised as the bear, had overheard Prat’s observation concerning the colony’s weakness, there had been, Vytal believed, no possible means of communication between him and the Spaniards.

The one chance, then, seemed to lie in the exaggeration of Roanoke’s forces, by manoeuvres implying fearlessness and strength.

As Vytal surprised the foremost body of attackers by his sudden sortie, the flanker culverins necessarily became silent, while the men at the palisade loop-holes likewise ceased from firing.

Now on the headland there was a general mÊlÉe, and to distinguish Englishmen from Spaniards was impossible. Only the lofty figure of Vytal, towering above all the combatants, kept the anxious watchers from despair. Sable forms, spirits of the night, met and fell, while, above all, coruscant swords and pike-blades flashed in the calm light of stars; and here and there a face, anguished or triumphant, being lighted up by fitful cressets, seemed not a human countenance, but only, as it were, an expression, bodiless, the mere look of a ghost haunted by reality.

Suddenly, a new glare, high and lurid, broke the gloom. The tree-trunks of the western palisade were now themselves flambeaus, ignited by stealthy Winginas, who, having overcome the outposts, had gained the town.

With a loud cry, Hugh Rouse warned Vytal, whereat the captain fell back to the main entrance. “Quick!” he said to Rouse. “Give the signal to Manteo,” and Hugh started toward the western wall.

In another instant the savage enemy would have been surrounded by Manteo’s men, according to the preconceived arrangement, but Rouse was unexpectedly delayed.

From the small gateway which led to Vytal’s cabin a soldier rushed out to meet him with drawn sword. Even in the faint starlight there was no mistaking that scarred face, with its indrawn eye and yellow teeth, as the lips parted in a smile. The man was Sir Walter St. Magil.

Without a word they met, and their swords crossed, to kill, immediately. But Rouse, taken by surprise, found himself on the defensive, and, before he could swing his heavy weapon effectually, the other’s point pried into his sword-hilt, which, being wet and slippery from the moisture of his fingers, slid from his grasp, and fell with a thud beside him.

Nothing daunted, the giant closed in, unarmed, upon his antagonist with so impetuous a rush that St. Magil could not thrust again before a huge pair of arms encircled him completely. His own arms, benumbed by the sudden pressure, hung lifeless, while at one side his sword dangled uselessly.

Their faces touched, their chests, thighs, and legs were locked together as though with iron bonds. And St. Magil’s breath came in short, quick gasps, hot on the other’s mouth. But at last, gradually, the herculean arms closed tighter and yet tighter about their prey, until suddenly Rouse, hearing a low, cracking sound, knew that his adversary’s arms and perhaps a rib or two were broken.

Then, and then only, Hugh released his grasp, and, leaving St. Magil groaning on the ground, rushed away to give Manteo the signal for a counter-attack.

That moment’s delay, however, was fatal. For even now a great cry went up from the fortress, and a large force of Spaniards who had effected a landing far to the south surrounded it on every side. They had come through the southern gate, by which Eleanor long ago had gone in search of herbs for Virginia.

The fort became like a thing alive. From its ramparts a volley of musket-balls rained on the steel headpieces below, while from every aperture long streaks of flame shot out venomously, and in the middle of every streak a ball.

The defenders, under Dyonis Harvie, were offering a brave resistance. The Spaniards hung back behind a natural breastwork of hillocks.

But suddenly a small man, unnoticed, crept close to the fort’s rear and from one side surveyed the muzzle of a culverin inquisitively. The gun roared, and then, quick as thought, before it could be recharged, the watcher whistled thrice. Instantly the aggressors sprang up from their cover and assaulted the rear entrance.

But the man who had first crept forward was not content with open onslaught.

In a few minutes the entire rear wall of the fort was enveloped in flames that curled up over the ramparts, and Simon Ferdinando, the incendiary, was groping in a subterranean vault. “Make haste,” said a boyishly excited voice. “I am here,” and in a moment Frazer, having been liberated by Simon, had entered the main armory.

The fortress no longer belonged to England.

Frazer glanced about the mess-room with a quick, searching scrutiny. It was half filled with a coarse crew of his own arquebusiers, who, bridling their ribald tongues half mockingly as he entered, awaited his commands. A number of women were cowering in one corner. Before them lay the last of their immediate defenders, lifeless or mortally wounded, Dyonis Harvie prone in the foremost line, his wife, on her knees beside him, imploring him to live.

As Frazer looked at the women he bowed to two, about whom the others were gathered in despair. “The king is come, Mistress Dare, according as he promised years ago. He claims his queen.”

He turned to the soldiers. “Bear these two to the hovel in which Vytal lived. Do with the others as you will. The town is ours.”

CHAPTER V

It was not long before Frazer stood alone with Eleanor and Virginia Dare in Vytal’s secluded cabin beyond the palisade, and about the cabin a Spanish guard.

The small room was fitfully lighted by a cresset that had been thrust into a chink in the log wall. Opposite the door stood Eleanor, with Virginia at her side, while before her, just within the room, Frazer leaned easily against the door-post, talking in low tones. In the mother’s eyes there was a calm determination, in the daughter’s as little fear, but no resolve.

“Then you object,” said Frazer, languidly, “to being crowned a queen?”

She made no answer. He turned his headpiece about in hand, pouting like a young boy.

“I should have preferred your heart’s love,” he declared, plaintively, “but that, perchance, will come later.” His manner, changing, became forceful. “Oh, believe me, the end hath come. We have played several games, you and I, but this is final; and now, by God! I win! D’ you hear—I win! England will never send you aid. This I know from St. Magil, who hath lately been there. Marlowe, the poet, ne’er e’en saw her Majesty to tell her of your plight. His end came far too soon. ’Twas defending the name of that trull, Gyll Croyden, he died in a brawl at Deptford—these poets will be rakes to the very end.” He paused, then spoke slower, with renewed emphasis: “Vytal is surrounded at the main entrance. At a single word from me our force, which now holds the fortress, will go to increase the overwhelming numbers that hem him in. Whether or not I give that word rests entirely with you. Your beloved Ananias is no more. Come, my beauty, I will make you my wife. There! What more can you desire? Oh, you smile ironically; you think we know not the colony’s weakness. Did I not hear the jovial Prat proclaim it on the house-tops to his friend the ox? You think I did not convey the information to St. Magil. Pah! ’twas an easy signal. Well I knew that if I came off alive Vytal would range his men before me and offer to hold me as an hostage for our ship. The signal was prearranged. Had you outnumbered us, I was to sink down as if in fear before the musketeers; but were you weaker, I was to stand erect. I stood erect. They knew then, as they know now, the hopeless condition of your colony. Your colony, Mistress Dare!” He let the words sink deep into her heart. “Your colony—are you going to cause their complete annihilation by refusing to accept my hand?”

He smiled, and added carelessly: “Then there is John Vytal.”

For a moment her eyes flashed, while she drew herself up proudly, but at his last words her chin sank on her breast and a flood of tears blinded her.

Virginia grasped her hand, and, bending forward, gazed up into her face perplexedly. “O my mother, will you not save the colony and Captain Vytal?”

Frazer nodded to Virginia approvingly. “I doubt it not,” he said, “for your mother is by no means heartless.”

Eleanor raised her head and gazed at him so expressionlessly that he started perceptibly; all life, all beauty, all consciousness, mental, spiritual, and physical, seemed suddenly to have left her face.

She went forward to him like one walking to death in sleep, and the only words that seemed, as it were, to drip and continually drip relentlessly on her brain, were these: “The end, the end!”

He sprang forward and covered her hand with burning kisses. “Thou’rt mine, Eleanor—mine at last.”

But suddenly he paused, startled. A low rustle, or trampling sound, as of innumerable bare feet rushing across the town, had caught his ear. And the voice of Hugh Rouse, far away, called loudly: “Quick, Manteo, this way! Thank God, we may yet save Vytal!”

On this Eleanor drew back with a cry of gladness, and Frazer hesitated. A Spanish soldier appeared at the door. “Shall we reinforce them?”

“Nay, keep your men around this cabin.” He turned to Eleanor, snapping his fingers carelessly. “Foh! a fico for the battle! You see I value your love higher even than our cause, and whether you will or not, I shall force it from you.” With this he started eagerly toward her, arms outstretched and eyes brilliant.

But Eleanor, quick as lightning, drew from her bosom a small poniard and held its point to her breast. “Another step,” she said, calmly, “and I stab myself.”

He paused, in genuine amazement. His supreme self-love had never dreamed of this—that a woman would rather kill herself than become his wife. “I no longer need to save others,” added Eleanor, triumphantly; “it is myself I save.”

For a moment he stood abashed, the very picture of chagrin; but then the light of a new impulse leaped into his eyes.

“Ay, but there shall be another,” he cried, “demanding your sacrifice,” with which, before she had divined his intent, he grasped Virginia in his arms and carried her to the doorway. “She is almost as beautiful,” he sneered, “and much younger.”

“Stay!” and Eleanor, swaying as if she must fall, cried out again in anguish, “Stay, I implore you—stay!”

He turned, laughing. “Nay, Mistress Dare; first throw away thy poniard.”

With a strenuous effort to stand erect, she obeyed, and the weapon fell at her feet. Evidently satisfied, he now released his hold on Virginia, and, swaggering forward, with an air of bravado, put an arm about Eleanor’s waist, while the daughter, utterly dazed, stood speechless, watching him.

“My dear love,” he murmured, caressingly, “rebel not against fate. We shall be very happy as king and queen.” It seemed as if there were a tone of real tenderness in his voice, while gently he led her to the door. But her own voice was silent as the grave, and again her whole being seemed hopelessly inert.

Before passing out he bent over her, and, with both arms, crushed her to him in a tense embrace. Then he started back and his face went pale as death.

A loud clash of steel, a roar of many voices, a whirlwind seemingly, and Vytal stood facing them in the doorway.

Like a flash Frazer drew his rapier, but too late.

The soldier, infuriated beyond control, thrust deep and deep again.

Frazer fell.

Vytal turned to Eleanor. “Come away, quick, by the rear entrance. Manteo and Rouse have overcome his guard.”

The wounded man groaned pitifully. “I pray you send me a priest,” he pleaded. “There is yet time for a short shrift. Your heretic parson will do an there’s none other.”

“I have no messenger at hand,” said Vytal, “and cannot go myself.”

At this moment, however, a slight dusky figure stood in the doorway, to which Frazer motioned feebly. It was Dark Eye.

“Send him,” said Eleanor, mercifully.

“Nay, for he must guard Frazer.”

“But the man is dying.”

“Nevertheless,” said Vytal, bitterly, “he is not yet dead.”

“Then let Dark Eye bind his arms, though it seems cruel.”

Vytal assented, and in a moment the captive lay bound hand and foot with thongs of hide from the Indian’s girdle.

Virginia came to her mother. “I will go with Dark Eye.”

Eleanor rested a hand on her daughter’s head, and turned to Vytal. “Is it safe?”

“Yes, with him.”

Together Virginia Dare and Dark Eye left the room, only hesitating for a moment beyond the threshold to turn and wave farewell. “Have no fear,” said Manteo’s son. “The Winginas are put to flight; the Spaniards have left the town. Later we meet you on the shore.” The cresset flared high; its radiance fell across those two slight figures side by side in the near darkness.

The old world and the new had plighted troth, and here were the symbols of an everlasting union.

In another instant the picture had vanished—White Doe and Dark Eye were hidden in the forest.

“Now come,” said Vytal to Eleanor, and together they left the cabin. “We have won,” he declared; “yet lost completely.”

She glanced up at him with renewed apprehension, questioningly. In silence he led her to the shore. “See,” he said, and she looked up to the headland. A sheet of flame sprang heavenward from the town. “And look!” Two shadows were receding slowly southward. “Those are the enemy’s vessels.”

“Then we are exiles once again.”

The soldier inclined his head. “Yes, exiles. England will never know of our existence; history will account us futile in all our endeavors, and inexplicably lost.” His voice sank lower. “Five Englishmen remain alive besides myself.”

A cry escaped her lips. “’Tis impossible!”

“Nay, ’tis true.”

“But why, then, do the Spaniards beat a retreat?”

“Because Manteo’s force, though fatally delayed by Hugh’s encounter with St. Magil, arrived in time to surprise them, and because Frazer kept his guard apart from the main attack.”

She rested her hands on his arms and came very close to him. The glare of the burning town illuminated his face, showing an expression that even she had never pictured. The stern tensity was relieved, the despotic tyranny of his mouth, the imperial crown of deep-cut lines on his brow, the portentous fire of his eyes—all had been subdued beneath the touch of love. Drawing her closer, he kissed her forehead reverently.

The darkness of night had lost its meaning. The merciless fire was seen no more save as they found it reflected in each other’s eyes.

They were one.

Yet it was all so essentially natural that they experienced no surprise nor wonder in the realization of their unity. It seemed but the end of a primordial beginning, the reversion to their souls of a pre-natal heritage, which but for a season had been withheld that by sorrow and suffering its perfection might be assured.

For long they stood in silence, their very beings seeming to co-blend, each the other’s complement, both a perfect whole.

At last Eleanor spoke, and he felt her tremble with the words. “Let us never again speak the name ‘Frazer’ even within ourselves.”

“Nay, never,” he said. “I thank God he hath gone from out our lives.”

But Vytal’s thanksgiving was premature.

Frazer lived. In the cabin on the cliff above them he lived and moved. Slowly, and with great pain, he contrived, by working his way on knees and elbows, to reach the wall, high up in which the torch still sputtered fitfully. Then, although a stream of red had marked his passage across the room, he placed his bound hands between the logs and, with a strenuous exertion, raised himself until he stood unsteadily upon his feet. And now it was not only the cresset’s light that flashed in his blue eyes. A look of victory surmounted the expression of pain, as, stretching out his arms, he held the wrists immediately over the torch’s flame. The fire scorched and blistered his white skin, burning deep and slowly. At the last his teeth, gnashing in agony, met through his underlip, but still he allowed the flame to work its will. For the thongs that bound him, being damp with blood and perspiration, had not yet been severed.

Finally, however, burning like fuses, they parted slowly and fell to the floor. Then, bending forward, he unbound his ankles, stifling a moan as his scorched fingers untied the knots. Suddenly he was free; and, hastening as best he might to a lifeless Spanish soldier who had been killed in guarding him, he was in a moment not only liberated, but armed as well with a musket ready primed.

Having thus provided himself, he once more fell to his hands and knees and crawled, like some dying animal, into the forest. With a superhuman stoicism and determination, he descended by the winding path that led from Vytal’s cabin to the shore, while a circuitous trail of blood marked his progress.

At the wooded margin of the beach he paused and, leaning against a tree, staggered to his feet.

Two figures stood before him, distinctly visible in the light of the consuming flames.

But, as he raised his weapon, one of the figures moved.

Vytal had heard a rustle of leaves, yet the warning sound came all too late.

A short tongue of fire flashed beneath the branches, almost simultaneously a musket-shot rang out, and Eleanor fell prostrate on the sand.

A cry like the death-note of a soul rose from Vytal, and then the soldier’s face, in the first instant terribly anguished, was transformed to the face of wrath incarnate. His eyes were blue flames.

He rushed to the strip of woods, with sword quivering.

But Frazer lay dead, his face, lighted softly by the stars, showing no malevolence in its smile, more than ever boyish, guileless, and amused.

CHAPTER VI

Vytal turned automatically and, with his old martial tread, crossed the sand to Eleanor. At her side he knelt for a moment transfixedly in silence, then sank down upon her and grasped her to him as if in an effort to revivify her lifeless form by the sheer might of his love and grief.

But now a dark shadow, seemingly no more tangible than the shadow of Death, emerged from the forest and stood over them.

“My brother, grieve not; perchance life is yet within her.” The Indian bent down and listened. “I hear no breath,” said Manteo, at last, “nor heartbeat. Her kirtle is stained with blood.”

“Ay,” said Vytal, “she hath left me.”

The Indian pointed westward. “Come, my brother, let us bear her to my people. They have gone to the main, and your countrymen with them. There, far from the sea and evil ships, they will live in peace. Thy Spanish enemies all have retreated before my men. Come, my brother, the voice of the forest calls you. There is no other way. Did not the stars at thy birth foretell that thou shouldst be a queen’s defender and the brother of a king? A queen’s defender thou hast been; the brother of a king I beseech thee to be always. Am I not that king of the prophecy? Is not the depth of the forest, solitary and ever dark, the fitting home for one in whose soul all happiness lies buried? My brother, come!”

Vytal returned his gaze in silence, neither granting nor denying the earnest plea.

“John Vytal, you number but six Englishmen in all. To remain is to murder thyself, e’en though thine enemies, Ferdinando and St. Magil, have retreated hastily in a canoe to the Spanish vessel. On the mainland we shall be safe, if upon thee we can depend. The man of God and Margery Harvie, the White Doe and Dyonis, all have started thither under the guardianship of thy servant, Hugh Rouse, who believed you wholly safe with my people. Thus, with thee, there are but three warriors in all. Shall the greatest of these not go, as he hath always gone, to the place where he is most needed?”

“Ay,” said Vytal, vaguely; “that is here. Let us defend the town!”

But Manteo pointed to the palisade, across which the first dim light of dawn was slowly breaking. A gray mist or dust was rising from the enclosure and floating softly out to sea. “Those are the ashes of your Roanoke settlement,” said Manteo, “which the breeze would bury far away. The fortress lies smouldering, and much of the palisade as well. All is lifeless.”

Vytal watched the gray veil unwind itself across the headland. This, then, was a fitting symbol of the climax in which all the fortitude, patience, endeavor, exertion, prayer, and yearning of years had culminated. Ashes! All gray ashes—the hope of England and of himself.

Finally he turned to Manteo, with a deeper consciousness, and stooped to raise Eleanor in his arms. But the Indian, who had watched her face intently, restrained him. “Wait, my brother, there is yet hope. I will instantly seek two herbs in the forest. ’Tis possible the one will heal her wound, the other awake her from sleep,” and, so saying, he entered the woods.

Once more Vytal knelt beside her, while slowly the dismal drone of the surf seemed to creep nearer, until, entering his brain, it wore all thought away. To reason was impossible, to strive for reason a torture that racked him through and through.

Yet at last, appearing to have aroused somewhat from his stupor, he drew his rapier, and, passing his fingers over the blade, muttered: “The bodkin, the little bodkin!” with which—worse, far worse, more terrible than any cry or moan—a laugh, a loud, harsh laugh, came from the broken heart of the man who had rarely been heard to laugh before.

He let the rapier-hilt fall softly to the sand, yet held the point in one hand, and with it touched the artery of his wrist. He was conscious now of one thing only—utter failure! He felt certain that Eleanor, with all his hopes, had left him. It was but the natural result of his life-long battle against Fate.

“I am alone,” he said.

For many minutes the rapier-point, moving imperceptibly, scratched his skin. Yet he made no thrust, for the horribly incongruous hilarity of his expression gradually died away, leaving his face once more grave and unrelaxing.

Suddenly he rose and stood as if on guard, not against himself, but another. At this he called aloud, as though Rouse stood near. “Quick, seek Manteo and the tribesmen! Bid Dyonis protect his charges to the end. See to it that Frazer is shackled heavily. We win!” His eyes flashed. “Send to me Roger Prat and Marlowe. They are men. Ho! Marlowe, come, come quickly to my aid! Is ’t possible thou hast forgot that night on the bridge when side by side we fought to save her?” He paused, thrust into the darkness, then reeled and let fall his blade. “O my God—I dream.” And, sinking down once again beside Eleanor, he looked first into her pallid face, and then at the shroud of ashes that was borne out lightly to be folded with the veil of the sea. Both mists, gray and commingling on the water, seemed the cerements of his dead ambition. For not only the sea had failed him, but the land as well. And this was his only message to England—an ephemeral breeze, ash-laden, from the West he had come to win.

The cries of many birds, awakening, filled the air. The stars, paling slowly, died. The breeze stirred summer’s heavy foliage mournfully.

Vytal shut the light from his eyes, and from his ears the sounds of morning. With head bowed he then relived his life. And the moments when he had been with Eleanor rose pre-eminent above all other memories. He thought of the court, of how by his glance toward her he had been deprived of knighthood. He recalled vividly the fight on London Bridge, and once more saw her standing in the Southwark gateway. He remembered their meeting on the fly-boat, and first saw her praying in the lanthorn-light, then leaning on the bulwark, when they two had been alone in a world of mystery. At the last she was bending over him as he lay in the armory after the battle of the ships. Once again her voice was calling, “John Vytal.”

The repetition of that far-off tone seemed a living echo from his heart.

“John Vytal.”

He moved slightly, and, as if in a waking sleep, looked down at Eleanor; then started, and, bending closer, strove for an answer to the dream.

In very truth her eyes were open.

“Eleanor.”

“Yes, I live.”

His hand swept across his forehead. “O God, ’tis a dream—again a dream.”

Yet now another hand touched his brow, and, where sight had failed, that single touch convinced him.

“I am not alone,” he said.

She grasped his hand feebly. “Nay, not alone. I think ’twas a trance. All the grief, the sudden happiness, the terror, the joy, o’ercame me. Yet—yet—I am sore wounded.” Her eyes closed; she breathed with an effort. “Whence came the shot?”

“From Frazer, even as he died.”

An expression, first of pain, then of absolute peace, crossed her face; but she made no rejoinder, for strength again had failed.

He brushed back a strand of hair from her forehead, stifling a deep moan. For once his very soul seemed falling to an abyss of fear. Fatalism was overcome by yearning, the power of endurance by the acute agony of doubt. Uncertainty laid an icy chill upon his spirit—the spirit of a child lost in the universe. Essential grief stood face to face with essential joy, each expecting, yet despairing of the victory. And the result of this meeting seemed to ravage the elements of being.

Once more Eleanor gazed up to his anguished face.

“Strength returns,” she said, with a wan smile.

He trembled and turned toward the forest, consumed by impatience of the soul. “Manteo hath gone for healing herbs,” he said. “O God, spare her to me!”

Long he stood with head bowed and eyes gazing into her face; long he stood, a bleak rock of the shore, stern, rigid, fixed, striving to force upon himself the utter calm of self-surrender and finality.

But at the last she stretched out her arms and drew him closer to her. “God is good,” she said. “In my heart he tells me I shall live.”

Yet even now, as the spirit of promise seemed to be breathed into their souls, Eleanor, reading Vytal’s face, realized that beneath all his silent hope that word “failure” had not been obliterated from his great masculine heart. For the colony of Roanoke was no more.

“Dost not see,” she asked, brokenly, “that success is ours?… Of a surety, never again will Spaniards seek to land on this Virginia shore.” Her words were scarcely audible. “Their leader is dead, their lesson learned.… Future generations will find here a perfect security … because we, the first, have suffered … and yet won.” She raised herself to one elbow, bravely subduing her faintness, and pointed toward the headland. “Look.”

The two mists—the mist of ashes and of the ocean—were gray no longer. The first flush of morning suffused itself over sea and land.

Eleanor’s eyes sought Vytal’s, but now from the light he turned and looked steadfastly at the broad, deep forest of the west, with prophetic resignation in his gaze, as at a world not wholly lost, yet only by others to be won.

Her hand touched his gently.

“I am not alone,” he said; “nay, not alone.”

THE END