Vytal smiled. “Justice demands patience,” he said. “Do you, then, seek Hugh, bidding him go among the mariners with eyes and ears awake. And likewise make investigation for yourself. Find an you can the limits of the plot, map out its course, survey the field. Bring proofs. ’Tis better so.” “Justice!” muttered Roger to himself, starting away—“’tis always justice!” Joining Rouse, he thrust his hand through the big soldier’s arm. “A stoup of liquor, Hugh, will loose my tongue, and fit it well for questions. ’Tis to be all questions now, and never an answer from our lips. Big lout, think’st thou it is in thee to hint a query and induce reply with never a trace of eagerness? Nay, but follow me, King Lud’s Lord Chancellor—Heaven preserve his forsaken Majesty—ay, sirrah, follow me, and praise good fortune for the chance. Be mute. Keep tongue between teeth, and thy great paw well within a league of sword-hilt.” And so the garrulous Prat ran on, after his usual important manner, until they had gained the forecastle. In the mean time Vytal and Marlowe, near the main-mast, were striving, by discussion and induction, to obtain a more comprehensive grasp of the situation. The soldier had long suspected St. Magil of treasonable intrigues, the nature of which, however, was undiscoverable. In the Low Country camps for the last three years there had been rumors of treachery, with which Sir Walter’s name had been vaguely associated. Some had openly pronounced him a spy in the pay of Philip of Spain, while others had as firmly declared him loyal to Henry and Elizabeth. “We are his match at least in sword-play,” observed Marlowe, finally. “’Twas proved conclusively upon the bridge.” “We are his match,” returned Vytal, with a quiet confidence, “in all things.” “I trust we may prove this, too,” said the poet, regarding his companion with marked admiration. “We shall.” It was now nearly midnight, and the wind left a long, rolling sea, in which the fly-boat lay wearily, like a landsman in a hammock, uncomfortably asleep. The decks were deserted save for the burly figure of the pilot at the helm, the two shadows near the main-mast, and a ghost-like sailor here and there on watch. The _Admiral’s_ dim light had gone down over the horizon. “Desolation,” muttered Marlowe. “All desolation. It seems as though the God—if God there be—were sleeping.” “There is a God,” said Vytal, simply. The poet smiled sceptically, and would have rejoined at some length, but a cloaked figure came to them out of the darkness. It was Eleanor Dare. Marlowe started back as though struck without warning, and turned to Vytal with a jealous look. But the glance of enmity passed as quickly as it came, leaving only deep affection and sympathy in the poet’s face. Instinctively he made as though to withdraw, and they, to his regret, offered no remonstrance. “You will find me,” he said, “with the steersman. It may be well to watch him closely.” And he left them.