“Gyll Croyden—Gyll!” And the impetuous poet, beside himself with alarm, not stopping to hear another word, rushed away. When he had passed through the north gate of the palisade, Ralph Contempt, who had watched his headlong pursuit, turned, with an amused look, and entered the fortress. In its main apartment, a long mess-room that served also as an armory, he found a small company of soldiers, who sat about in groups playing at cards and “tables.”[5] Believing that Marlowe had admitted him, they made no remonstrance, and soon he was throwing dice and jesting with the merriest, his eyes roving now and then over the massive oaken walls and stacked muskets. But as there was no great show of weapons here, he grew listless and unheedful of the game. The heavier pieces, if such there were, must be elsewhere. Laying down his dice-cup with a yawn, he sauntered into the hallway, closing the mess-room door behind him. But here he started back quickly, as though to return to the armory, for some one who had just entered the fort was approaching him with light footsteps. Recognizing the tread as a woman’s, however, he went forward more easily and met the new-comer in the middle of the hall. The light, coming from the door behind, threw out her figure in relief, but failed to reveal her face. In the next instant, though, when his eyes had become accustomed to the glare of the entrance, he started back more suddenly but less perceptibly than before. Then, quickly regaining his composure, he bowed low as to a woman and a stranger. As the light from the doorway fell full upon his face, it became the other’s turn to show surprise. Instinctively she recoiled, a world of meaning memory in her hazel eyes. But he gave no sign of notice. “’Tis Mistress Eleanor Dare, I think,” he said, with a courtly deference. “She hath been well described by all. These colonists laud her to the skies. Moreover, I have watched her many times from beneath her window.” “Your name, sir?” The voice contained no recognition or repulsion now, but only a natural inquiry. “Ralph Contempt, yours to be commanded.” “Ah, Master Ralph Contempt, of whom I have heard much lately. The sole survivor of that brave company which perished.” “Madam,” he returned, in a lower tone of double meaning, “I, too, may perish.” “Why, sir, what mean you? Are you not safe and sound among your countrymen?” There was an accusatory stress on the last word, but he only answered with a shrug of his shoulders, and reassumed his old, wandering manner. “Are you, too,” he asked, vaguely, “a dream, as I am? But oh, how different! Your eyes fire my brain, madam. Women have offered to die for me—” he was running on now with a wild impetuosity—“it is refreshing to meet one at least for whom I myself would die.”