“That is readily answered,” she replied, nevertheless, with hesitancy. “You see, I durst not return to Lambeth through the borough, and thus expose us both again to danger, although I knew that my father would entertain misgivings and grave fears for my safety. When you know him better you will recognize his deep solicitude for every person’s welfare; how much more, then, for his daughter’s?” “Know him better!” exclaimed Marlowe, in surprise. “But I have never seen him.” “Indeed, you must have met him. My father is the governor of this colony—Governor John White.” “But—but _you_,” ejaculated the poet, in bewilderment, “are Mistress Dare.” “Being the wife,” she declared, with an almost imperceptible tremor in her voice, “of Master Ananias Dare, one of my father’s twelve assistants. It was he who came in the barge that night on his way to join us at Lambeth, and, seeing me in such sorry plight, decided to retrace his way with me to London.” “A wife!” and then Marlowe said a strange thing, as though wording a second thought that rushed to him on the heels of his first shock. “It will kill him.” He was speaking of another man even in that moment—thinking and speaking of another man. For the intensity of that other, the naked soul, the dominant will, the inexorable fatality were compelling, by sheer force, the homage of his immediate circle. It was simply the irresistible power of a great character at work. And there is no human influence so near omniscience. She paid no heed to his low exclamation, but, with a few irrelevancies, left him. He had but little time to seek the meaning of her abrupt departure, for at this moment Vytal joined him and tersely revealed the facts regarding the plot of St. Magil. The poet showed more surprise on hearing of St. Magil’s presence than on having his instinctive suspicions verified concerning Ferdinando’s treachery. “Dost thou know the extent of this treason?” he asked. “Nay, therein lies the rub. The pilot is doubtless far from clean-handed, and, for aught we know, several others among us, in greater or less degree, conspire to work our ruin.” “Yes,” observed Marlowe, thoughtfully, “in St. Magil’s words, as you o’erheard them, I seem to hear the whisper of a wide conspiracy in which even the Spaniards of St. Augustine will play their part. But tell me, would not decisive action here and now defeat them more surely than cautious measures?” “I think not,” replied the soldier, turning in the direction of approaching footsteps. “Who comes?” “’Tis I, captain, a wet dog, at your service.” “Get you below, Roger, for warmth, and a change of garments.” “’Tis impossible, sir; such as I find adequate attire most difficult to borrow. Hast never seen me in a moderate doublet? The sight, they say, is worthy of a stage play. Moreover, the only warmth of interest now lies in the oven of Sheol, wherein, ’tis my ardent hope, Master Pilot will soon be roasting by your command.”