“To entertain the savage people,”[3] quoth Gyll, leading him off tyrannically. “On my word, Kyt, ’tis so! We would win them by fair means, you see.” “And you me by the same pleasantries,” returned Marlowe, more lightly, as her mood captured him. “Mistress Croyden, thou’rt a savage thyself, a sweet savage, Gyll, and they’re all for winning thee, I suppose.” She smiled complacently, with a full consciousness of the charm that made her popular, and Marlowe laughed at the expression of childlike vanity. Then for an instant his brow clouded, his flattery became more lavish and exaggerated. A tall, unmistakable figure had passed them in the darkness, like the person of a dream, and Vytal, having gone to the fly-boat, was even now in eager search. The vessel, a small but cumbrous thing of the Dutch galliot type, with mountainous stern and stolid bow, offered little encouragement to the seeker. For its lights only revealed vague faces, while its masts and shadows, decks and turnings, seemed to form an agglomeration of dark hiding-places in which any one might all-unwittingly stand concealed. But for the moon, now sailing high, recognition would have been impossible. The soldier, moreover, customarily so direct of method, felt a certain embarrassment and helplessness in this unprecedented adventure. Having until now avoided women with a real indifference, his present want of practice gave him the awkward feeling of a raw recruit. He was momentarily at a loss as to the best manner of procedure. Since he knew none aboard the vessel of whom he could inquire concerning Eleanor Dare, the chance of his meeting her, without special purpose, seemed slight. He considered the expedience of accosting at random some stranger, who might perhaps at least know the girl by sight. Weighing this plan in his mind, he approached a company of the voyagers, who, gathered in a circle about the main-mast, were kneeling devoutly, while an Oxford preacher read the evening prayer. It was in harmony with the tranquil evening—the picture of those forty or fifty men and women beneath a dim lanthorn, that, deepening the shadows beyond its scope, lit up here and there a face reverent with supplication. And to the earnest piety in the pastor’s voice, the restless water from stem to stern added a mystical whisper of unknown things.