“Had it not been for your ox-brained stupidity, we might have been laughing at Master Contemptuous even now.” The giant rolled over and surveyed his vituperative companion with a yawn. “Now, had I been there,” Roger persisted, “instead of cooling my heels at the pleasure of these knaves, had I been there in place of a numskull, Master Frazer would have been _here_. Dolt!” “Have a care, Roger! I’ll brook little more of thy poet-aping names. ’Twas Marlowe taught them to you, and ever since, like a magpie—” But the other was shaking with mock laughter. “Brook little more!” he gasped; “brook little more, indeed! And think you I fear the threat of one who lets a laughing infant tweak his nose and run away without so much as spanking the child? I can see him smiling now, as he floated off in the canoe. Why, ’twas in the self-same craft you brought! Now, that was considerate of thee, gull.” “Leave off, Roger.” “Wherefore?” “Think you I like to remember the escape?” There was a note almost pitiful in the gruff voice, a pathetic growl that sounded like a moan. “An I were a wench, Prat, I’d weep for sheer vexation.” Roger curiously eyed him, and, strangely enough, the idea of this giant weeping failed to touch his bubbling sense of the ludicrous. With an unprecedented consideration of Hugh’s feelings, he changed the subject. * * * * * Five miles to the southward another couple held converse. They stood on the deck of a Spanish vessel—by name the _Madre de Dios_—apart from a company of soldiers. “The man we sent to await him,” said one, “has returned alone. Yet our esteemed prince was to have left Roanoke this morning.” “Then what think you, St. Magil?” asked the other, who was evidently a Spanish officer of no mean rank. “I fear his wayward highness has come to harm, and is a prisoner in their fort. Shall we not push forward without further delay?” “By all means let us hasten to the attack. Towaye, the Indian who guided me from Roanoke, has gone with provisions to meet his highness near the town.” * * * * * In the main cabin of an English ship still a third couple conversed with as much import in their words as the second. “There is yet no sign?” “Not yet, Captain Vytal.” “They will carry no lights, Dyonis.” “Nay, sir, I look for a black shadow, and listen for the ripple under its bow.” * * * * * As though the hand of Death were on them, the ships and the town lay still. Only a single circle of light, like a watchful eye with a dark iris, shone through an aperture in the fortress wall. The central disk was a cannon’s muzzle. On the ramparts of the fort a man stood alone, looking out across the water. It was Christopher Marlowe, alert, restless, and impatient.