“That may be,” allowed Roger, “for I doubt not his three days’ roaming has wearied him considerably. He’s a cub no longer, and has, I’ll swear, lumbago, like myself. Let him lie. But here’s a great brute who’s slept too long.” And Roger poked Hugh Rouse viciously with his foot. Yawning, the giant rolled over, and surveyed them stupidly. “Numskull!” exclaimed Prat, “thank the Lord we look not to you for protection. I’d sooner trust King Lud, though for the moment even he’s a-dreaming.” Virginia, amused at his raillery, cast another look behind her. “Nay,” she whispered. “See, he has crawled nearer.” “Oh, has he, indeed!” said Roger. “I’ll give him his deserts in time. But first this dwarfling here must explain himself.” He glanced down at Rouse. “How now, sirrah?—think you we are safe at home in England? Do your weighty dreams increase our numbers, that are in reality so desperate small? Think you the Spanish force could not swallow us up as thy great maw would engulf a herring? Poor fool, sleep on in thy fond delusion,” and, raising his brows in feigned contempt, Roger turned to the silent Indian and Virginia. “Now the lord chancellor shall have the honor of punishing his renegade monarch right merrily.” He rose, turned, and swaggered toward the ungainly shadow. As if the animal had readily divined his intention, the great nose shifted now this way, now that, irresolutely. “See!” cried Roger, “he creeps away like a beaten hound,” and Virginia saw the bowlder-like shadow rolling off toward the palisade. “Villain!” cried Prat, “come hither,” with which he ran forward wrathfully. But just as he was about to cuff the upraised snout with the palm of his hand, the awkward figure rose, and a glistering light shone for an instant in the fire-glare. With a groan Roger stumbled, and would have fallen, but now a mass of dark fur was flung at his feet, and a man, who had emerged from beneath it, started, quick as a flash, toward the gateway. Uttering a loud oath of pain and anger, the soldier sprang across the bearskin, and, although mortally wounded, contrived to grasp the stranger. Then, with a great effort, for at each moment the blood spurted from his breast, he threw his captive heavily to the ground. Again and again his antagonist’s short blade flashed and buried itself in his arm; yet, flinging himself bodily on the writhing form, Roger held the spy a prisoner. Even as he fell, a cry from Manteo awoke Vytal, while the others, startled by the commotion, leaped to their feet in wild confusion. Then, above the turmoil, rose Vytal’s voice piercingly: “’Tis naught!” For a single glance at the struggling pair and the empty bearskin had told him that a spy was caught. As the excited colonists gathered about the grappling couple, Roger rolled over in a swoon, and Vytal looked down at the captive, who was in an instant held firmly by Manteo and Rouse. “It is Frazer,” he said, calmly. “Bind him, and take him to the fort.”