“Deserted us!” The exclamation was not from one only, but all, and an angry muttering ran through the company. “These poets have no courage.” “She was afraid to stay. The parson bade her marry.” “We are well rid of them.” “Ay, but ’tis an outrage.” Then a new-comer spoke in sharp, condemnatory tones, not against the subjects of their talk, but against their own contumely. It was Vytal. “Yes, Christopher Marlowe hath gone,” he said, “for your sake, not his own. A Breton shallop came from the north, and he, for a cause beyond your ken, hath taken passage therein. In England, he will gain audience with the queen, and persuade her Majesty to send us aid. The thing is done. Now make the best of it.” Ananias started forward. “And you knew he was going?” “I knew it.” “Yet you dared to withhold the knowledge from us?” Vytal’s lip curled. “’Twas no great daring, but only kindness. I held you to your trust, and so shall till death.” They started toward him, wrathful, riotous. “Oh, you seek to end the matter now? I am at your service. Here, Hugh, to my side!” The giant, hurling aside all who sought to oppose him, obeyed, with broadsword drawn. Ananias fell back from the front ranks swearing, his retreat seeming to affect the others with a like discretion. “I have fought for you and by your side,” said Vytal, a new note of grief in his voice; “yet with death you would repay me.” “Ay, he fought for us well,” cried Rouse, fervently, and the words were echoed in embarrassed whispers through the crowd. Slowly they turned and left him. * * * * * For several hours a stout vagabond wandered aimlessly through the woods, now and then addressing an unresponsive companion. “She’s gone; my laughing Gyll is gone! Come, your Majesty, get you into the barge; we’ll go to Roanoke.” The heavy craft, bulky and awkward as its occupants, moved on and on through the night until at last it touched the southern shore of Roanoke. “Behold that glade, your Majesty; it is the very spot where you danced with her while I piped, and the Indians looked on with wonder. But, body o’ me! those days are gone. King Lud, thou’lt dance no more.” And the vagabond clasped arms with his comrade. “Those days are dead; let ’em be forgot.” Thus together, hither and thither, round and about, the strange pair wandered, until they came to a ravine margined with a natural arbor of grapes whose tangled vines clambered to the trees and lay like sleeping snakes in a near-by opening. To these the bear paid no attention, but sniffed about the trunks of trees for fruit of another kind. One of the arbors, however, interested the soldier. “It was here,” he said, “that her wit right bravely saved her from Towaye, and she clipped the locks o’ her sunny head a-weeping. Lack-a-day, those times are mine no longer. Let ’em be bygones, Roger Prat, and think no more on ’t, I do beseech you.”