She said nothing, but withdrew from the window to caress her child. A tear fell on little Virginia’s forehead, and then soft fingers wiped it away as though to obliterate the symbol of Sorrow’s baptism. And now a low, broken murmur rose from without. “Yes, as a kind of hostage,” said one. “A token of good faith,” added another. “And she shall be as a queen unto us.” “Then, surely,” observed a third, “his Excellency will come back with succor.” “It is well.” “And the _brave_ Master Dare must share our fate.” “Ha! That is best of all.” “Roger Prat speaks wisely.” “Ay,” echoed many, “your round head, Roger, is not all whim.” He laughed and rejoined Marlowe. “Your master will be angry,” said the poet. “Not in his heart, Master Christopher.” The gathering dispersed, casting amused glances at Ananias, who, now pale, mortified, and desperate, entered the house for his only antidote against remorse and fear. The governor made way for him on the threshold and stood for some minutes watching the retreating figures of his colonists. Then he, too, withdrew slowly, and his step for the first time suggested infirmity, his face age. * * * * * On the following morning Vytal met Eleanor Dare near the shore. “You are going?” he asked. “No.” “’Twould save you from many hardships.” “I count them blessings. Few women are allowed to suffer in so good a cause. Their pain shows no result.” “Nay, Mistress Dare, the effect lies too deep perchance for mortal eyes to see it. I was once wont to consider women so many smocks and kirtles that clothed the air, but lately mine eyes have read the truth.” His manner was in no way passionate, but only deep with reverence and admiration. The passion lay iron-bound within him. Only his eyes could not utterly conceal its presence; and, looking up to them, she became once more a child. With all others she was a woman, often imperious and always perfectly at ease, yet with this man she was forever forced to assume the defensive, not against him, but herself. She looked up at him now for the first time with a glance of analysis. Until to-day she had never considered Vytal’s character in detail. Hitherto he had been a force, intangible, but dominant, like the tide or wind. But now that emergencies and crises had revealed her heart to her mind, against all that mind’s resistance, he, too, became actual, and despite herself she knew him to be the one man whom she could love. Yet the word “love” was unutterable even in her depths. She called it by no name, nor applied a word to his own devotion. Only the thought came to her, as she met his look, that this inexplicable, taciturn Fate bending over her would become a child like herself beneath the touch of a requited—but even then she interrupted her thoughts with speech. “I could not have consented to leave our colony, even if Roger Prat—” she hesitated. Vytal’s manner grew more stern. “Roger Prat? What has he to do with it?”