And in another part of the ship Vytal was recalling one of the rules of sailing, “That every evening the fly-boat come up and speak with the _Admiral_, at seven of the clock, or between that and eight; and shall receive the order of her course as Master Ferdinando shall direct.” “To-morrow at seven of the clock,” he repeated, “or between that and eight.” CHAPTER II “In frame of which nature hath showed more skill Than when she gave eternal chaos form.” —MARLOWE, in _Tamburlaine_. Although on the second night there came but little wind, the _Admiral’s_ master found it necessary to strike both topsails in order that the less speedy fly-boat might come up for his orders, as the rule demanded. But even with this decrease of canvas the sun had set and darkness fallen before the two ships lay side by side. At last, however, being lashed together with hawsers, so that men might pass from one to the other without difficulty, they drifted beam to beam—two waifs of the sea, seeking each other’s companionship on the bed of the dark ocean, like children afraid of the night. But that night, at least, was kind to them, though only the lightest breeze favored their progress. The sea lay smooth as a mountain-guarded lake, save where the two slow-moving stems disturbed its surface, awakening ripples that rose, mingled, and dispersed, to seek their sleep again astern. And the ripples played with the waiting beams of stars, played and slumbered and played again, but beyond the circle of this night-time dalliance all was rest. Here the ripples were as smiles on the face of the waters, and the gleams were the gleams of laughing eyes; but there, far out, the sea slept, with none of this frivolous elfinry to break its peace. Yet even now, up over the ocean, as a woman who rises from her bed and seeks her mirror to see if sleep has enhanced her beauty, the moon rose from behind a long, low hill of clouds, rose flushed as from a passionate hour, and paled slowly among the stars. From the _Admiral’s_ deck a young man watched her. “It is Elizabeth,” he said, “leaving Leicester for her people’s sake. Roseate love gives place to silver sovereignty. The woman is sacrificed that we may gain a queen. ’Tis well that Mistress Dare owes no such costly relinquishment to the state. Few compel the love of men like Vytal—and yet—and yet I would have—” But a laugh at the poet’s side interrupted him, and a girl of comely figure thrust her arm through his own. “Moper,” said she. “Come now; Roger Prat hath brought his bear to show us, and there will be no end of merrymaking. We have I know not what aboard—two morris-dancers, hobby-horses, and the like conceits of May-time.” “By Heaven, Gyll!” exclaimed Christopher, “one might think our governor was Lord of Misrule and the whole voyage but a Whitsun jollification. Wherefore these absurdities?”