Neither of the two saw Eleanor Dare again while on the voyage, save for an occasional glimpse of her, when, with her maid-servant, who was the wife of Dyonis Harvie, she came upon the deck for a breath of air. Ananias approached the two men now and then with whispered protestations of his innocence, that grew more calm and earnest in his sober moments. Finally, however, he vaguely confessed a slight complicity, to Vytal only, and followed the acknowledgment with a convincing assurance that at heart he had ever been loyal to his father-in-law, Governor White, and to Sir Walter Raleigh. Vytal, hiding his contempt, received this assertion with a promise to leave the matter as it stood so long as there were no signs of further culpability, and gave the assistant his hand with a strong effort. He then instructed his men to preserve a like secrecy. For many weeks the ship pursued her solitary course without once sighting the _Admiral_. It was feared by many that Ferdinando’s vessel had met some misfortune, and foul play was suggested by but a few of the most suspicious voyagers. Only one incident in all these weeks seems worthy of record. Vytal was standing alone at mid-day, down on the orlop deck, examining the ship’s cables and spare rigging, when a light footstep, almost inaudible, approached him from behind. Turning, he saw the Indian, Manteo, who, it will be remembered, was returning to Virginia after a stay of several years in England. He held a finger to his lips and looked about him cautiously. “We are betrayed,” he said, in a low voice, “by the son of a warlike country. Ferdinando leaves his children to perish. The great ship seeks us not, but would make her way to my land alone.” Vytal scrutinized the impassive face for the first time with a deep interest. He had seen the Indian’s tall figure, now and again, standing silently aloof in the bow, his dark eyes always gazing off to the westward. But until now he had not seen those eyes alert and troubled, the supple form prescient with meaning. “What brings you this suspicion, Manteo?” “I know it as birds know that winter comes, as vultures that a warrior is dead.” There was a marked similarity in the bearing of the two men. They were both tall, dignified, and slow to speak, both evidently perceptive, strong, and masterful, both almost childlike in their direct simplicity. Perhaps each realized the likeness, for into the eyes of both there came a look of understanding that gave promise of a bond between them stronger than the stout cables the one had been examining, stronger even than the other’s ties of blood. “My brother,” said Manteo, at length, “you, too, know the truth, but in a different way. I came to thy country as Master Barlow’s interpreter, many moons ago. I return to my people, but I have learned among thine to interpret more than words. Thus, and by my own heart, I know that we are left behind. I have spoken.” “You have spoken no lie.” “I am Manteo, and lie not.”