A short sigh of relief escaped the poet’s lips; not that he had doubted, but that he had awaited, seemingly an age, this reassertion of power. “Yes,” he said, “yours was not really failure. Can Fate be thwarted? Nay; yet for a time little men, elated and audacious in their puny grandeur, may break its august decrees and laugh at the inevitable. Vytal, read yourself; interpret the cryptograms your sword hath hewn; translate your nature into words, and, even though you withhold the meaning from us all, you will have attained to the consummative pinnacle of manhood.” The poet’s fervid eyes, gazing at his friend, became orators. For a moment Vytal’s face softened, while a fleeting smile crossed it sadly. “I must return now to the town.” “And I,” said Kyt, “to my birthland. You have been a ‘queen’s defender.’ This much of the gypsy’s prophecy has been fulfilled. I will tell her Majesty, and, in gratitude, I doubt not, she will send hither assistance to you all. Yet, Vytal, my soul is consumed with fear for you and Mistress Dare.” Vytal shrugged his shoulders. “I have not yet worthily defended her, but the day will come.” “Yes,” returned the poet, “of a certainty the day will come. Ne’ertheless, have a care, I pray you, when again you meet this Frazer. His strategy is unsurpassed, his cunning resourceful and never spent. I could feel happy even now, in leaving, were the actor dead and his incongruous blue eyes closed, his lips uncurled. Well, I tarry no longer. The moment hath come for me to go. I pray you say nothing of my departure. Let them think that I have been slain by some wild beast, or if, by ill-luck, they see the sail, let them believe I have deserted.” Vytal shook his head. “That I will not. When you are gone I shall tell them of your sacrifice. They must know the truth. A surreptitious leaving and elopement shall not be their charge against you.” The poet’s face grew troubled. “But they will blame you,” he objected; “they will kill you for your share in the concealment of my plan.” “Let them try,” returned Vytal. “I care not; now, farewell.” “Farewell.” The two separated abruptly, and Marlowe, with a light step, artificially careless, made his way to the headland beyond which lay the Breton shallop awaiting him. In the evening, under cover of darkness, a canoe, propelled by one man, came stealthily to the southern shore of Croatan, and went away again with two occupants. Later these two boarded a vessel that hovered about near the mainland. The ship, the canoe, the people were shadows—all wraiths of unreality. But suddenly, after the vessel had crept away, far to the eastward, and the land was seen no more, a low, weird song arose at the first moment of light. It was from many voices, sailorly and strong, but the tongue and the tune were strange save to the stalwart singers.