At this her manner, curiously changing, became graver, the assumed archness and petulance for the moment leaving her. “You speak of cruelty,” she said, in a very low voice, again turning to gaze down at the sea, “and of hope. Sometimes, Captain Vytal, they are synonymous;” and then, before he could make rejoinder, she added, quickly, “I pray you tell me of the escape?” “’Twas through a window overlooking the Thames,” he answered, in bewilderment. “And I swam ashore.” “Ah, I see. I thought perhaps you had followed us through the porter’s lodge.” “No; the way was blocked.” “Tell me,” she asked, “was it your plan, our reaching safety as we did, or Master Marlowe’s?” “Neither his nor mine.” “Neither! Whose, then?” “At least, in a way, neither. You see, I remembered the story of the porter’s lodge. In 1554 Wyatt gained that building by mounting to the leads of an adjoining house, and thus made his way onto the bridge. Hence I knew there must be passageway to the Bankside.” “And you remembered even while your sword demanded so much attention?” “It came to my mind.” She smiled with a kind of wonder in her eyes, and then a hint of irony. “Of course the plan was not yours—it was clearly Wyatt’s.” “Another rebel’s,” observed Vytal, for the first time looking off across the water with a trace of abstraction in his face. “Rebel? How mean you rebel?” “Naught, but that it seems my fate to be at odds with the world.” “For instance, to rebel against bear-baiting,” she suggested, glancing at him sideways. “I heard of that, and recognized the rebel from description.” “Readily, madam, I doubt not. They called me a long, lean wolf, a grizzled terror, with the usual flattery.” “Yes,” she said, nodding her hooded head and pursing her lips, “they did.” “And very truly,” he averred. “Oh, fie, sir! You seek a contradictory opinion.” “You know I do not.” “Nay, then perhaps you are not sure of it.” His simplicity and directness vexed her. She seemed strangely distraught by nervousness, and her manner was unnatural. “You wound me, Mistress Dare.” “Hast so much vanity?” she queried. “And the wound,” he went on, disregarding her uncontrollable banter, “is not from your words, but manner more. Somehow the mere being with you brings me pain.” “Our interview is of your own seeking, Master Vytal.” “I had not thought,” he declared, in a tone almost angry, “that one with such a face, such a voice, could be so unkind,” and once more he started as if to go. But she put out her hand with a detaining gesture. Her manner again grew serious, more like the deep, far-reaching, silent sea than its near-by surface, flurried by the ship.