The soldier followed his gaze. “There!” The word came in a vague tone of wonder, as from a sleeper at the gates of a dream; and with no comment, no reproach, no question, Vytal went away to be alone. For many minutes after he had gone, Marlowe stood looking into the shrouds, but at last, as though their shadows palled on his buoyant spirit, he wandered along the deck, singing to himself a song of genuine good cheer. And soon, to his delight, the notes of a musical instrument, coming from somewhere amidships, half accompanied his tune. Eagerly he sought the player, and came on a scene that pleased him. For there against the bulwark sat a stout vagabond cross-legged on the deck, strumming merrily on a cittern, as though rapidity of movement were the sole desire of his heart. The instrument, not unlike a lute, but wire-strung, and therefore more metallic in sound, rested somewhat awkwardly on his knee, for his stomach, being large, kept it from a natural position. The player’s fat hand, nevertheless, with a plectrum between the thumb and forefinger, jigged across the strings, his round head keeping time the while and his pop-eyes rolling. “’Tis beyond doubt that Roger Prat,” said Marlowe to himself, “Vytal’s vagabond follower, and avenger of King Lud, the bear.” Ranged around this striking figure were many forms, dark, uncertain, confused in outline, and above the forms faces—faces vaguely lighted by an overhanging lanthorn, and varied in expression, yet all rough, coarse, uncouthly jubilant with wine and song. In the middle of this half-circle a woman sat predominant in effect. Her hair, riotous about her neck, shone like gold in the wavering gleam; her red lips were parted witchingly. She was singing low a popular catch, in which “heigh-ho,” “sing hey,” and “welladay,” as frequent refrains, were the only intelligible phrases. On seeing Marlowe she rose, even the refrains becoming inarticulate in the laughter of her greeting. “Why, ’tis Kyt!” she cried—“Kind Kyt, the poet!” whereat, much to the amusement of her admiring audience, she stepped lightly toward him and, throwing her head back, asked outright, “Saw you ever so comely a youth?” then, with a coquettish, bantering look at the cittern-player, “Good-night, Roger Prat, I’m going,” and she led Marlowe away into the darkness. “Gyll!” he exclaimed, “Gyll Croyden! Is’t really thee? How camest thou to leave thy Bankside realm, thy conquest of rakes and gallants?” She laughed anew at this and shrugged her shoulders. “How camest thou, Kyt Marlowe, to leave thy Blackfriars, and thy conquest of play-house folk, for the wild Virginia voyage?” The poet laughed as carelessly as herself. “Because ’tis wild,” he answered. “Indeed, I know no other reason.” “It is my own,” she said. “I grew stale in London.” “Not thy voice, Gyll. Methinks ’tis all for that I like thee.” She pouted, then smiled contentedly. “Come, Kyt, away into the bow. I’ll sing to thee alone.”