Gyll responded with a grimace that was by no means pretty, and puckered up the corners of her mouth, which had never been made for sarcasm. Nevertheless she obeyed with silence, as gradually the present circumstances were borne in upon her again, recalled, no doubt, by Eleanor’s words. She looked down at Towaye, who sat near the entrance, busily occupied in extracting the marrow from a shank of venison. Then her eyes fell to the pannier behind him, and particularly upon one of the objects it contained. She lay down again upon the ground, and, gazing up at the gnarled and braided branches of the arbor’s roof, appeared to have forgotten her outburst. At last, with a seeming purpose wholly foreign to her usual manner, she whispered a suggestion in Eleanor’s ear, concluding with, “It is at least a chance.” “Yes, but, failing, the result would be terrible, unimaginable. Besides, he is too cautious.” Gyll shook her head knowingly. “Wait and see.” Then, seating herself near the grassy threshold of the arbor, she spoke in a louder tone, still addressing Eleanor. “Master Frazer is well provided. I see that his friends have sent him wine from the ship. A bottle’s neck looks temptingly out of the pannier. Wine, wine! ’twas for gods that grapes were grown. Hast ever felt the thrill, the pleasant effects of the golden liquid?” She paused, listening. Towaye was no longer gnawing his marrow-bone. “Venison and wine! ’Tis the dinner of kings; and, besides, when one dies of thirst as we do—” her voice fell lower, but purposely not too low for the jailer’s ears. “Wait. I can reach it.” She moved nearer to the entrance, intentionally rustling leaves and grasses as she did so. Her bandaged hands reached out. But the Indian’s dusky arm, with quick stealth, forestalled her. It was for this that she had hoped. Greedily, yet half fearfully, Towaye seized the bottle. She saw him turn it about in his fingers for an instant, inspecting it from neck to bottom much as a child surveys a new toy, wonderful and strange beyond comprehension. And, as a child, he seemed half in fear because of the mystery. To avoid temptation, he turned about toward the arbor, and Gyll noticed the awe underlying his desire. Presently he spoke. “In England Manteo said, ‘Drink not. There is an evil spell in wine. The sunlight therein is angry at being imprisoned and not free as on the water. Behold how it affects the English, turning them to madmen. Learn, and drink not.’ These were the words of Manteo. He is a wise counsellor.” Gyll laughed. “Wise, I doubt not,” said she, “but deceived. Wine is rather the cure for madness—the madness of thirst, suffering, cold, and all that tortures men. I pray you give it to us.” Seeming reassured by her words, and yet more by her apparent desire to drink the mysterious liquid herself, Towaye grunted a refusal. “It is not for women,” he said, cunningly. “It is for men.”