The prow fell free, and finally the boat was floating. Then the on-lookers saw Ananias stagger, or, rather, almost spring forward, having, they supposed, lost his balance as the craft shot out from land. But Hugh’s immense hand, grasping his belt, pulled him backward to save him (the by-standers believed) from a ducking. Rouse and Prat walked away arm-in-arm. “Well done, midget; I had not thought so dense a brain would fathom his intention.” Slowly the _Admiral_ and fly-boat sailed away, their hulls, bulwarks, and deck-houses vanishing beyond the inlet from the ocean until only the shrouds remained, and now the whole colony had left the shore, save one woman. Long she watched the sails that, like white clouds, seemed to grow smaller, and at last dissolve entirely beneath the eastern sun. Finally a naked horizon met Eleanor’s eyes at the edge of a brassy sea, and she turned back to the town. CHAPTER XVII “What we have done our heart-blood shall maintain.” —MARLOWE, in _Edward the Second_. “Thy words are swords.” —MARLOWE, in _Tamburlaine_. To those who, long afterwards, recalled the months and months that followed Governor White’s departure there was no clear, consecutive reminiscence in the mind’s eye. Only one or two vivid scenes, enacted in those anxious days, graved themselves on memory. All else was but a medley of hours and seasons, and even years, quick-changing, confused, monotonous yet varied, listless yet portentous and pregnant—the fœtus of the Future in the Present’s womb. Hope burned brightly, waned, flared again, flickered, and seemed to die. For even Hope cannot live by Hope alone forever; only grief is self-sustaining. And grief came to the colony of Roanoke. Pestilence, tempests and privations, famine, drought, and mortality, all conspired in turn against their one invincible enemy whose name is Courage. A desperate, absorbing question haunted the faces of men, women, and children; a question first asked in words, next mutely from eye to eye, then not at all. _When? when?_ The word holds all the meaning of existence, and the meaning is a question. Despair is the death of Hope; Resignation, the deep-cut grave. Yet from the grave a ghost returns to whisper, “Then.” The ghost of Hope still haunted Roanoke Island. Surely some day the resigned yet watchful eyes would see a sail to the eastward. First the settlers said “To-morrow,” then “Next month,” and at last, “Within a year John White will bring deliverance.” But summers and winters passed until two whole years had gone, and speculation was eschewed by all as vain self-torture.