“I’ faith, ’tis a murky night,” said Marlowe, striving to determine the outlines of trees against the sky. “This wind’s a very nightmare to the woods.” He turned slowly and sat down at the table. “’Tis well that most of the colonists have built and occupied their homes. Troth, I pity them who sleep aboard the ships at anchor.” Vytal inclined his head, and Christopher smiled comprehendingly. Eleanor, at least, was safe and unharassed—hence Vytal’s unconcern. Mistress Dare, of whom lately they had seen nothing, was housed in the governor’s new-built dwelling, beyond the strip of woodland whose high outline Marlowe had just found indeterminate between this cabin and the town. But Gyll Croyden was still on board the _Admiral_. Marlowe remembered this, and his thoughts pictured vividly the two women in contrast—one, as he supposed, all content and comfort; the other at the mercy of every wind and wave that crossed her life. Listlessly he toyed with a sheet of paper on the table, and, picking up a pen, dipped it in an ink-horn at his side. “_Comparisons are odious_,” he wrote, slowly, little dreaming that the words, born of that fleeting contrast in his mind, were to become proverbial the world over. But, on raising his eyes to Vytal’s face, he found in the deep expression none of the odiousness of comparison, for in his friend’s thoughts there was only one woman to be considered. Again the poet smiled, as one who half gladly, yet half sadly, understands, and once more his reflections shaped themselves in words. He wrote, carelessly, “_Who ever lov’d that lov’d not at first sight?_” and, letting fall the pen, handed the paper to Vytal. The soldier read and re-read, but made no response whatever, for, even as his eyes were raised from the writing, his look changed suddenly, and Marlowe, with astonishment, saw him gazing transfixedly toward the battered door. As a dream comes in the night-time to recall the thoughts of day, so a face, seemingly visionary, appeared now to the two men. The jagged edge of the door’s orifice framed it uncertainly, but the cresset’s light fell across the features in vivid revelation. Vytal’s lips parted as though he would have spoken, but it was Marlowe who voiced the name. “Eleanor—Mistress Dare!” And now slowly, yet before the two could recover from amaze, the door was opened, and, like a white dove from the heart of the gale, Eleanor came within the cabin.