“Because the orders and articles are framed exactly upon the plan of those issued by Frobisher in 1578, when he sought a northwest passage, and by Sir Humphrey Gilbert in 1583, changed, of course, to suit our smaller fleet. The worthy Ferdinando has effected a wise combination; he has done well—and lied in doing it.” The governor looked up into Vytal’s dark face for the first time, searchingly. “How came you to know?” he queried. “I remember things.” “But where—” “I forget other things,” was Vytal’s answer. “An you’ll permit me I’ll leave you. There’s a man’s face under that light”—he was walking toward it now alone—“a familiar face,” he repeated to himself, and the next minute exclaimed in amazement, “’Tis the man who fought beside me on the bridge!” “Ay,” said the poet, smiling, “’tis Kyt Marlowe,[2] at your service in reality.” Vytal scrutinized him keenly, Christopher returning the gaze with a look of admiration that increased as his eyes fell once more on the so-called bodkin at the soldier’s side. “You are readier with that implement than with your tongue,” he observed, finally. “The most important questions,” returned Vytal, “are asked with an upraised eyebrow, an impatient eye.” There was an abrupt cogency and gravity of manner about the soldier that sometimes piqued his fellows into an attempted show of indifference by levity and freedom of utterance. They made as though they would assert their independence and disavow an allegiance that was demanded only by the man’s strong, compelling personality, and seldom or never by a word. He was masterful, and they, recognizing the silent mastery, must for pride’s sake rebel before succumbing to its power. Marlowe, with all his admiration, born of the soldier’s far-famed prowess and imperious will, proved no exception to this rule. “I marvel,” he observed, with a slight irony and daring banter, “that so dominant a nature is readily subject to the coercive beauty of women’s faces. Even the Wolf’s eyes may play the—” “What?” “The sheep’s.” It was a bold taunt, and the poet was surprised at his own effrontery. But like a child he saw the fire as a plaything. “Explain.” The word came from Vytal quietly and with no impatience. “Oh, there have been other beguiling faces, so I’ve heard. A tale is told—” he hesitated. “Of whom?” “Of you.” “What is it?” “A tale vaguely hinting at a court _amour_. ’Tis said the queen would have knighted a certain captain for deeds of valor in the south; but at the moment of her promising the spurs, she found him all unheedful of her words, found him, in fact, with eyes gazing off entranced at a girlish face in the presence chamber, the face of her Majesty’s youngest lady-in-waiting. To those who saw our Queen Elizabeth then and read her face, the issue was seemingly plainer than day, blacker than night.