Even the sanguine governor had by now given up all hope of finding any survivor of the fifteen men who had been left to hold the territory for England. The supposition became general that these unfortunates had been massacred by a tribe of hostile savages, known through Manteo as Winginas. The colonists were much surprised, nevertheless, when, on a day early in August, their suspicions were seemingly verified in an unexpected way. In the afternoon Vytal sought Rouse at the fortress, which had been rebuilt. “Where is Roger?” “I know not,” replied Hugh. “He is mad in this new country, more addle-pated than before. An hour ago I saw him leading King Lud away into the woods, and, following him, Mistress Gyll Croyden, after whom he runs nowadays as the bear runs after him. They went, I think, to speed some friendly Indians on their homeward way. But he is mad with his pipe and tabor, his cittern and King Lud. I fear in his wagging head there is no sense left.” Vytal smiled. He knew men. “Come, we will go in search of them. I must see Roger without delay.” They started out together on the trail the Indians had taken, Vytal telling briefly of St. Magil’s approach, and Rouse listening with more of satisfaction than alarm. At length, after a long walk, they heard the familiar notes of a flute gone wild, and pushing forward to an opening in the woods that bordered on the water, came within view of a scene that is wellnigh indescribable. There, in the middle of the glade, sat Roger Prat on his tabor, piping for dear life, while Gyll Croyden flashed in and out amid the shadows in a dance even more fast and furious than the tune. But this was not all; for there, in ludicrous contrast, stood King Lud, the bear, facing her from across the sward, erect on his hind-legs and curveting clumsily about. His nose sniffed the air; his fore-paws dangled idly on his shaggy breast; but the bandy hind-legs danced with an awkward alacrity, while he shambled hither and thither as though on a red-hot iron. Again and again he revolved slowly in a cumbrous, rotary jump, maintaining his equilibrium with the utmost effort of ponderous energy. And still the flutist played his rollicking tune, the romp of the notes accompanying occasional outbursts of musical laughter and warbled catches from Mistress Croyden’s lips.