At length, as a prayer for the general welfare of the colony drew to a close, Vytal, who had been standing on the outskirts of the circle, his head bowed and bared, raised his eyes to the preacher. Then, from the minister’s uplifted gaze and hands outstretched in benediction, his glance wandered to the background of suppliant figures, whose faces, as they rose at the conclusion of the service, were distinctly visible. Soldiers were there, and gentlemen, mariners, planters, and cooks, musicians, carpenters, masons, and traders, and, in the foremost line of the circle, a little knot of women and children. Toward these Vytal turned his gaze. They seemed workers of a spell—co-workers with the murmurous sea, and the vague shadows, in subduing and softening the picture. Vytal started and instinctively stepped forward. The whole scene had dissolved now, save for one predominant figure. Seemingly as though merely to form a background for her, these men and women knelt there; as though to shine upon her alone, the lanthorn had been hung above her head; as though the shadows, daring not to cross her, were there to obscure all other faces that hers might be the better seen; as though to her the sea whispered, for she alone could understand. Vytal stood motionless, watching her with hunger in his eyes. Her beauty, of that rare kind which disarms criticism even while suggesting it, was not a flash to startle fleetingly the observer, but a subtle charm, with all those deeply suggestive qualities of form and feature which weave themselves into the very heart of memory. Hers was no brilliant contrast of color in hair and brows and cheeks, but rather a perfect harmony. The light brown of her hair blent with her hazel eyes and with the fine straight lines above them. Her color came and went with each change of expression, like the transitory flush of earliest morning; but generally her face was of a clear cream tint, which died away softly in the russet hair. The worshippers were now separating, and she, by the side of a thin, weak-looking man, who, from Marlowe’s description, was probably her brother, came near to Vytal. He stepped back into a dense shadow, turning half away. “Nay,” he heard her say, coldly, “you know I would be alone oftentimes at evening. Solitude and reverie are indispensable to some natures, and mine is one of these. I shall be safe, and if need be you can find me when you will up there in the stern.” With that she left her companion. But at first Vytal could not bring himself to follow her. She had expressed a wish: it was his law. Yet, as the minutes went by, seeming hours, he began to grow fearful lest some harm should befall the girl, and so set out in quest of her.