“She’s different now—oh, sadly different—I think ’tis Master Marlowe, the poet, turns her head. I saw him with her, and she entranced. I’m no more to her than _you_. And she is most miserable. To-night she came and said: ‘The voyage is very dangerous. Oh, would we’d never come!’ ‘Yes,’ quoth I, ‘’tis even more dangerous than you think.’ ‘Oh,’ said she, with a scorn that’s hers alone, ‘you are drunk,’ but I assured her ‘No,’ and hid the cup like this beneath my hands. Oh, why do I care, why do I care when she sees the wine?” The maudlin remorse came into his voice again and into his watery eyes. “‘What mean you?’ she asked, ‘by more dangerous?’ ‘Oh, the pilot will run us into Portugal,’ said I. ‘How comical! And there’ll be twenty men on deck before the dawn to do it. ’Tis most extraor’nary!’” At this Vytal started again to his feet. “Wilt swear it?” he demanded, fiercely. The drunkard leaned back and stared at him, seeming for the first time to strive for a sober moment. “Nay.” “How do you know it, then?” The vague eyes blinked with a more definite consciousness than heretofore. “I heard them plotting.” “And will not inform us on your oath. Then you jeopard your own safety, Master Dare. Silence now is culpable, treasonable.” “Oh no, no—what a mad boat—rolling about so—I, treasonable; how strange! Then I’ll swear, an you will, ’twas the pilot.” “You’ll swear?” “Most certainly, I’ll swear.” “Where are the twenty men? Do you know that?” “Nay, how should I know?” “Did you not overhear the pilot give directions? Think you they are in the forecastle?” “No, not there—not by any means there.” “In the hold, then, hiding?” “Ay, that’s it. In the hold. Down in the dark hold—oh, ’tis most uncomfortable in the hold—what a mad boat—rocking so—always rocking. ’Sdein! Where’s the tankard?” Rising unsteadily, he looked about on the table in stupid surprise, then, sinking back again, missed his chair and fell heavily to the floor. “Ah, ’tis here, the wine—such brave wine!” and, crawling forward on his hands and knees, he sat down half under the table, holding the tankard to his lips. “Such courageous wine!” Vytal went to the cabin door. “Heaven guard her,” he prayed, and hastened to the stern. Here he found the pilot and Marlowe. With a gesture, he drew the poet aside, and in a few words made known the truth. “’Tis against great odds,” observed Marlowe, his eyes lighting up, “that we fight again together.” “Nay,” declared Vytal, “there shall be no fight. Wherefore desecrate a rapier with so niggardly a foe?” Marlowe smiled. “The bodkin would fain stitch only satin doublets,” he remarked. “How, then, will you defeat these hirelings?” “Thus,” and leading the way to the forecastle, the soldier emitted a short, low whistle in one note. Soon Roger Prat stood before them. “He comes like a devil from a stage-trap!” observed Marlowe, in astonishment. Roger laughed proudly and bowed like a juggler after the performance of a cunning trick.