But the two ships were now rapidly approaching each other. Seeing this, Rouse desisted and turned to St. Magil with an agitated air, concealing suspicion fairly well, considering his honest, open countenance and utter incapacity for strategy. In this the darkness aided him. “I know not what to do,” he declared. “It is my friend who hath fallen overboard.” He held the torch high for an instant, so that its fitful glare fell upon St. Magil’s face, and then, instinctively realizing that it might betray the look of hate and distrust in his own eyes, he flung it far out into the water. There was this about Hugh Rouse which is rare in men of slow wit: he recognized his disadvantage. “I thought, Sir Walter, that you were in London.” “So I was,” returned the sinister knight, “a few days ago,” and, suppressing an oath—for the fly-boat, having been alarmed by a flourish of trumpets, was now within hailing distance—he hurried away to seek Simon Ferdinando. But Vytal had forestalled him. Immediately after Prat’s prompt action, he himself had gone quickly to the master. “The unfortunate man,” he said, “is one of my followers. With your permission, Ferdinando, I go to his rescue myself. The least we can do is to lower the ship’s boat.” Simon, evading his glance, looked hesitatingly at the choppy sea. “I mislike risking several lives,” he muttered, as though to himself, with feigned prudence, “for one man.” “I will go, then, alone,” avowed Vytal, quietly, “or with one other. Here, Rouse,” and he turned to his lieutenant, who had joined him. “We go to Roger’s assistance.” But still he looked at Ferdinando, as if deferring to the master by awaiting his assent. Simon, finding no plausible excuse for further delay, and fearing to arouse the other’s suspicions, made a pretence of ready acquiescence amounting almost to eagerness. As Vytal turned away he found himself face to face with Marlowe. “I go with you,” said the poet. Vytal nodded. “Quick, then!” And in another instant they had started out in the small boat upon their errand of rescue. The sea, running higher and higher, tossed about the stanch little craft like a cockle-shell, but the brawny arms of the three rowers, holding her stem to the waves, managed to urge her slowly forward. The fly-boat now lay alongside the _Admiral_, almost within rope-throw, and both vessels hung as close as could be in the wind, their bowsprits bobbing tipsily, their canvas half empty and rattling. The rowers strained their eyes and hallooed loudly, but there was no sight of the missing man nor any sound in answer save the flap, flap of the great square sails, the rush of the wind, the crash of the spray from broken foam-crests, and shouts from the swaying decks. The rowers, now under the _Admiral’s_ stern, were pointing the nose of their sea-toy toward the fly-boat. “Roger hath perished,” said Hugh, hoarsely. “God save his brave soul!”