He raised himself to his full height. “Because a voice, calling me in whispers, so decrees. I shall seek audience with the queen and Raleigh to demand the forwarding of supplies and men to Virginia.” He paused, a look of despondency crossing his face. “But would I could foresee success. Alas! I cannot. Some godless curse rests on this colony, whose spirit is in the very air we breathe.” He looked darkly into the distance, as though the hitherto invisible had come within the range of sight. Then, however, as he heard a sob from the woman beside him, his expression changed. The earnestness of the moment seemed to pall upon him, and he laughed carelessly. Untying a silken kerchief from her neck, he held it aloft so that it hung lightly on the breeze, its soft ends fluttering toward the sea. “This is the true reason,” he said, inconsequently. “The wind blows eastward.” Her eyes were smiling now behind her tears. “May not I go thither also?” she asked, breathlessly. “I cannot stay behind. ‘Faith, all the colony hath turned against me. The parson would have me married or banished, were there chance of either fate. Besides—I’d be more comfortable in Southwark,” she added, with a note of hardness in her ever-changing voice. He pressed her hand pityingly. “As you like, Gyll. ’Tis but natural you desire to return. Neither you nor I were made for this. Our parts were writ to be played in London. I go aboard the shallop within an hour, but it waits too far for you. To-night we’ll anchor to the southward. Do you slip away and await me on the southern shore. Whate’er you do, remember one thing: none must know of our departure. Nay, postpone thy thanks, Gyll, for here comes Vytal by appointment.” She turned, and, on seeing the soldier, who alone of all men inspired her with awe, made her way quickly to the town. As Vytal joined Marlowe, they spoke at once of that which paramountly filled their minds. “I am ready to start,” said Christopher. “The shallop lies north of Hatarask.” “Then,” returned Vytal, “let us go to it at once. I will accompany you thither.” They walked along the shore. “We can speedily reach the place,” said Marlowe, who was oppressed with the other’s silence; “I have left a canoe on the northern beach.” Vytal inclined his head, as who should say, “I supposed so.” The poet’s eyes saddened. “Your muteness is hard to brook.” “Nay, Kyt, I count it kind to both of us.” “Wherefore kind?” “Because, when the heart is sick, words but pain it more.” “You regret, then, my departure?” “For my own sake, deeply. We have been friends.”