Sometimes White would drop in to smoke a pipe with us, for I, too, had learned to love the soothing weed, and we would both sit solemnly puffing at our pipes, the room white with smoke, as Manteo would recount some marvelous adventure, or chant some savage song, while in our ears still rang the deep roar of the restless sea. It was on the first night that White came, when opening the door to his knock, I spied underneath his arm the sparkling handle of my gold-hilted sword. With a cry of joy, I took it as he held it out to me. "How camest thou by it?" I asked. "Sir Robert Vane sent it to me the day before thy coming on board," he answered, "and bade me give it to thee upon thy arrival. I crave pardon that I have not returned it before now, but in truth I have been so busy that I have not thought of it once. It is a splendid sword, and one worthy of thy valor." "'Tis a good bit of steel," I answered, "and has served me well, for which I prize it much, and have grieved that I had lost it. But sit thee down, and hear the Indian tell of his strange country." White took the proffered seat, and listened with grave face to the tale of the chief. The apothecary, John Marsden, I had met often upon the deck. I had seen him moving among the men, talking and gesticulating, and it was after these talks that they had cast the bitterest looks upon me. So in some way, dimly, I know not how, I began to connect him with the matter. He seemed to be always friendly with me, strove to make himself agreeable, but even when he strove the hardest, his uneasy eyes would belie his pleasant words, and he made no headway in my favor. One morning, rising early from my bed, while all the rest of the company were wrapped in sleep, I came upon him and another rogue, a carpenter, Hawkins by name, in earnest confab by the cabin. As I was about to turn the corner of the cabin, I heard my name called; peering out cautiously, I saw them standing with bent heads, only a few feet away. Marsden was speaking, his thin, piping voice lowered to a whisper. "We have been out three months, and thou still dost hesitate; dost thou call thyself a man, and yet fear to attack one lone mortal?" "He is the devil himself," grumbled his companion, "and he will have with him, not only White, but his shadow, the savage. The men shrink from arousing them, for it will mean death to some of us." "Fool," replied the apothecary, "creep upon him in the night. A thrust of the knife, and 'twill all be over. Thou shalt have a capful of bright gold when thou doest the work."