MY LORD TAKES HIS DEPARTURE
He wheeled upon me as I spoke. My lady had given one loud cry, whether
of joy or fear I knew not, and with clasped hands stood gazing at me.
"So thou dost come at last," he said coolly. "It is well; one of my
enemies has stepped out of my path forever to-day. Thou art the second
and the last, and thou too shall go to join him. Francis!" he cried,
raising his voice into a shout.
An answering call came back from the darkness, and I could see the
light as it streamed from the half-open door of a cabin, a few yards
away.
"Quick!" he cried. "'Tis that dog, Sir Thomas! Out, and at him!"
A yell, and the rush of approaching feet, as they raced for me; I had
sprung forward at the first shout and crossed swords with Dunraven.
He wore his steel breastplate, or I would have cut him down in a few
seconds, for he lacked much of being my match with the sword; but there
was naught for me to do but to make for his head, as my time was too
short to pick and choose my point of attack. Another cut at his head,
which he parried, and replied by a vicious lunge at my throat, which I
met--and then from out of the gloom his men sprang at me.
The priest, a great cutlass in his hands, came down like a wild boar;
behind him panted the fat skipper of the "Betsy," his red face aglow,
and at his heels an Indian in his paint and feathers. And now four to
one, on all sides of me, they cut and thrust; one man, no matter how
splendid a fight he made, could not keep all of them at bay.
A low cry from my lady caught my attention. She was swaying to and
fro, both hands clutched at her breast--even as I glanced at her, she
toppled and fell full length upon the ground. That one brief instant,
when I turned my eyes from my assailants, proved my undoing. With a
rush all four men were upon me. The priest caught the hilt of my sword
and was endeavoring to wrench it from my hands; the others sprang upon
my back and were trying to throw me to the ground.
"Drop all swords!" Dunraven cried. "I would not have him hurt--he is
reserved for a sweeter fate."
I staggered under their combined weight; my hands were pinned to my
sides, for the priest, having wrenched my sword from me with the help
of the savage, now gripped my body and arms with a grasp of steel. The
two, Miles as Dunraven called the fat skipper, and my lord himself,
were upon my back, with the Indian tugging at my knees. With a crash I
went down, carrying them with me.
What had become of Winona, I thought as I fell. Had she forsaken me?
She was the equal of a man in a fight such as this; but when it came to
the pinch, she had doubtless fled.
The priest had loosed me as I fell, and catching up a long knife, he
bent over me as I struggled with the others upon the ground. The old
dark leer was upon his face.
"And so we square accounts!" he cried triumphantly. "I have gloated
over the thought of this moment ever since we last parted. Die, thou
carrion! May thy foul soul rot in Hades with my old chief, the Count
DeNortier, for a million ages!" And he struck downwards at me.
With a whistle an arrow whizzed towards him, and as I looked I saw its
sharp point strike him in the throat, and passing through, project
a foot beyond. A shrill, keen, quavering yell vibrated through the
forest, as the priest staggered blindly, the knife still clutched in
his hand. Then another piercing cry rang out, as a second arrow struck
him full in the back, and with a hideous shriek he sprawled out upon
the ground.
An answering yell came from the other side of the glade, and the woods
rang and re-echoed with the blood-curdling cry. Miles was struggling
madly beneath me to rise.
"It is the Indians!" he cried. "Up!--let me go!"
Dunraven sprang to his feet. "It is the Cherokees!" He rushed to where
the limp body of Margaret lay, and catching her up in his arms, sword
in hand, he dashed out of the grove. "Save yourselves!" he shouted to
his men. "As for myself, I must rescue the lady."
The others were still struggling frantically with me, their only
thought to escape. With another series of deafening yells, two figures
sprang out of the trees and made for us. One of them was Winona, I knew
her by her short petticoat, and the other--yes, the firelight shone on
his face an instant as he darted by--it was Manteo.
The Indian with whom I fought had broken loose from me, and now dashed
forward. I saw him rush upon Manteo. The two grappled together, and
fell rolling and struggling on the ground.
Miles, to whom terror had lent the strength of despair, was fighting
manfully to free himself. His hand came in contact with the stone
tomahawk which the Indian had dropped in his fight with me; his fingers
closed over the handle, and raising it with all his strength, he
brought it down upon my left arm, where I held him by the hair, while
with my right I pinned his body down. My arm fell limp and helpless to
the ground. With a plunge he broke loose from me, and springing up he
bounded full into the arms of Winona, who caught him around the waist,
and with a howl of terror he fought to break away.
I leaped to my feet. Dunraven had disappeared with Margaret. I heard
him crashing through the woods a hundred yards away, as he ran at the
top of his speed. I dashed away in the direction of the sound, my
arm dangling by my side. But I heeded it not, as like a hound at the
heels of his quarry, I tore through trees and bushes, bareheaded and
disheveled, after Lord Dunraven. It seemed as though I crawled at the
speed of an ant, and yet I know now, that I ran as I had never done
before.
Now I rushed through level plains, upon which the moonlight cast the
shadows of the tall trees in strange fantastic shapes; then I would
tear my way through a dense thicket, or splash into the water of some
babbling brook and up a little knoll.
At last I caught sight of Dunraven. My eye glimpsed the flutter of
Margaret's dress, as with her upon his shoulder, he was running at the
top of his speed, below me some fifty yards away. Encumbered by the
lady and bleeding from several wounds, he was losing ground at every
step, and with a loud curse he shifted the limp body of Margaret to his
other shoulder, and halted a moment to shake a clenched fist at me.
In grim silence I ran on--bending every nerve and sinew to overtake
him. We were now on a long, level plateau, perhaps three hundred yards
in length. I uttered one long, loud cry. Startled by the nearness of
the sound, he slackened his pace for an instant, and made as though to
turn and meet me. But his heart failed him, and with an exclamation of
despair, he cast the lady upon the ground, and abandoning her, rushed
on.
Not for aught would I have halted then, for I was too near a final
reckoning with this villain who had hounded me so long. To-night we
would settle our quarrel for aye, and so swerving aside from Margaret,
who lay white and still where she had fallen, I ran on after him. I
would overtake him, cost what it might, or die in the attempt. A few
more bounds now, and he would be in my grasp.
"Curse thee!" he cried as I drew closer. "I believe 'tis as the priest
says, that thou art leagued with the evil one himself."
I made no answer. I was too near him to waste useless breath, for I
needed all my wind and strength too in that mad race.
"Thou hast won at every point!" he shouted bitterly; "hast beaten me
at every move, and for this I curse thee, now and hereafter. If it be
possible I would sell my soul to the devil himself, if I might come
back once more to earth to haunt and torment thee. I despise thee with
a bitter, unrelenting hatred, such as I have never borne before for man
or beast, for thou hast robbed me of her for whom I have plotted and
schemed for weary months," and he gave a snarl of rage.
I was upon him now, and with a cry of triumph I gathered myself for
one great spring, which would land me upon his back. But even as I
drew myself together to leap he threw up both hands and gave a scream
of mortal despair as though he were in the grasp of death itself. As
it rang out upon the night air he plunged forward, down, and out of
sight, his hands clutching and grasping at the earth to save himself;
for there, yawning dark and deep before me, was a great precipice, its
deep sides falling abruptly away, with no tree or vegetation to check
the fall below upon the solid rock.
I dug my feet desperately into the ground to save myself, for if I
went down there was no help for it, I would be dashed to pieces. My
feet slipped forward over the brink of the precipice, and clutching
despairingly at the stone ledge, I caught it with my right hand, and so
hung over that yawning abyss by one hand; for my left arm was broken
and useless.
No words can describe my horror and despair, as I dangled between
heaven and earth. I was too exhausted by my long, hard run to pull
myself up in safety. I could only hang thus until my grasp would weaken
and give way, and I would fall upon the rocks beneath. Suddenly I heard
a dull crash from below, and then silence. Peering cautiously down I
saw the figure of Lord Dunraven, crushed and mangled upon the rocks,
a hundred feet below me--this was his end. He had sown in blood and
crime, and so he also had reaped.
My grasp was weakening fast; my arm seemed as though it would be torn
from its socket with the strain. I had given myself up for lost, and
was about to loose my hold, and so relieve my aching arm.
A voice came from above me. It was as the sound of sweetest music to my
ears.
"Where art thou?" cried Winona, as she leaned over the cliff.
"Be careful," I answered, "there is a great chasm in front of thee,
over which I hang by one arm. Quick! or I must let loose and be dashed
to pieces on the rocks below."
A slight noise, and then she reached out, and with both hands grasped
me by the collar, just as my hand slipped from the ledge, and drawing
me slowly up placed me upon the ground. Exhausted and unnerved I lay
there, shaking and trembling like a leaf. The strain had been so great,
that now I was safe, the reaction was almost more than I could stand in
my worn-out condition.
"Where is the lady, Winona?" I asked feebly, as she bent over me.
"She lies below," she answered calmly. "I rushed on up here to find
thee."
"And thou didst leave her where she fell?" I cried in amazement.
"Yes," she answered stolidly. "And well for the Eagle that I did, else
he had not been here to tell the tale."
With an exclamation I got upon my trembling feet, and back I went
through the tall grass, the Indian girl at my heels. Thank God she
was still there; I could see the white dress as it gleamed in the
moonlight. Reaching her side I bent over her; her eyes opened and she
gazed up into mine.
"I knew that thou wouldst come," she murmured. "They told me thou wert
dead, but I knew it was false, and I have waited long and patiently,
praying that thou wouldst take me from this place."
"Yes," I answered gently, "I have come. Would that it had been sooner,
but I have done my best. I grieve that thou shouldst have been
subjected to the threats and terror of this man so long, but it is past
now forever."
"Yes, gone," she repeated softly. "But take me away from here."
Bending over her, I took her up with my right arm, as though she had
been a tired child, and with her head upon my shoulder, I retraced my
steps to where I had met Dunraven. Never will I forget that walk with
Margaret in my arms; I was weary--yea, exhausted--my left arm broken,
but I had forgotten these things--forgotten that my enemies lay cold
and still in that silent forest, and would trouble me no more. I only
knew that I held in my arms one that was more to me than all else in
this great world, that she lay nestled close to my heart, her light
breath gently fanning my cheek. For a few brief moments I tasted the
ambrosial nectar of the gods, and was content.
With Margaret I could walk on forever through these dark forests,
feeling neither hunger, thirst, nor cold. Manteo had joined us, three
fresh and bleeding scalps at his belt--one was the Indian's, another
the priest's, and the third that of the sailor, Miles. Without a word
he led the way down the path to the boats, I following, with Winona,
her eyes fixed upon my slightest motion, behind. We had traveled
perhaps one-half of the distance when Margaret stirred.
"I have recovered sufficiently to walk," she said. And looking down at
her face in the moonlight, I could see the deep blush upon her cheek
and neck.
"But canst thou walk?" I answered, loath to loose her. "'Tis but a few
steps more to the boat."
"Nay," she replied, "I can walk now." And gently, but firmly, she
loosed herself from my arm, and turned to follow Manteo, who strode
down the path ahead of me.
"What is wrong with thy arm?" Margaret cried in alarm, for a sudden
faintness had seized me, and I staggered blindly as I caught with my
sound hand at my left arm from which a stream of blood was spurting.
"'Tis naught," I answered. "Only a sudden weakness which has passed."
And I would have gone on had she not stopped me.
"Thinkest thou that I am blind?" she said indignantly. "Stop this
moment, sir, and have it dressed." And with a pretty, impetuous gesture
she halted.
Manteo glided to my side, and with his knife cut away the deerskin from
my arm, and glanced about him.
"If Manteo had someone to hold the Eagle's arm while he cut a splint,"
he murmured, half to himself.
My lady stepped forward, and despite my protest, caught my arm in both
of her hands, and held it in the position which the chief indicated,
while Winona darted away for some water from a little brook to wash
the wound. Quickly the chief splintered my arm, and putting it in a
deerskin sling, said that we were ready to proceed.
"Dost thou not wish Winona to go back for some of thy dresses, Lady
Margaret?" I asked, as we were about to start. She hesitated a moment.
"If she would," she said uncertainly, and she looked at the Indian
girl who stood a little apart from us. Turning to Winona I bade her
go to the hut, and bring back the contents of the chest which my lady
described to me. She turned and bounded back down the path out of
sight, while we moved on slowly towards the flat rock.
"It is well that thou didst come when thou didst," Margaret said,
with a dainty little shudder, "else I know not what I would have done;
for the Count DeNortier, who had protected me heretofore from Lord
Dunraven, was dead, and I was alone and helpless. Is Lord Dunraven
dead?" she asked suddenly, looking up at me.
"Yes," I answered slowly. "Both he and the priest are dead. My lord
fell over a deep precipice as I pursued him, and I had a narrow escape
from the same fate."
"I am glad," she said in a low voice. "I should have grieved if aught
had befallen thee."
"I thank thee," I said quietly, though my pulse bounded and danced
at these simple words, which in her kindness she had spoken--and so
we came to the boat. I helped her into the largest canoe (Manteo had
already broken a great hole in the other with his hatchet, so that it
could not be used to pursue us) and stepping in after her, I took my
seat.
A few minutes we waited thus in silence, and then Winona, panting and
hot, came down the trail, a bundle in her arms which she, without a
word, handed to me. She stepped into the canoe and picked up one of the
paddles; Manteo took the other, and they pushed out boldly into the
stream.
"Manteo," I said, turning to him, as he knelt in the bottom of the
canoe, and with powerful strokes urged her through the water, "it was
just in time that thou didst arrive."
"Manteo has been delayed long upon the journey," he answered. "Twice
he nearly fell into the hands of hostile red men, and he only reached
the lodges of the Cherokees a few hours after thou hadst departed. The
chief, Windango, told me where thou hadst gone, so Manteo followed hot
after the Eagle, and seeing the girl Winona, as I crept near the fire,
I recognized her as the daughter of the chief of the Cherokees. In a
few words she explained to me the trouble, and we gave the war whoop
and rushed at them. Of a truth they acted as if the whole Cherokee
nation were at their heels," and something like a smile crossed his
dark face.
"It sounded to me as though there must have been at least a hundred
savages in the woods," I answered. "My brother Manteo shouted as though
he might have been threescore himself," and I laughed at him.
My eyes fell upon Margaret as she shivered in the stern, and catching
up the great bearskin from the bottom of the boat, despite her
protests, I wrapped it about her.
"The beautiful one is more lovely than the dawn," said Manteo, a look
of admiration for a moment upon his face. "I wonder not that the Eagle
has traversed all these leagues to carry her back with him to his
lodge."
I looked at Margaret.
"Wouldst thou know what the chief has said of thee, Lady Margaret?" I
asked, a twinkle in my eye, for the chief had spoken in his own tongue.
Although he understood the English language, yet he would never express
himself in it, but would always talk to me in his own soft speech.
"What is it?" she asked, a faint smile upon her face as she noticed my
glee. "Nothing bad, I hope."
"He says that thou art more lovely than the dawn," I answered, wisely
judging that it would be better to suppress the latter part of his
remark.
The color deepened in her cheeks.
"Since when hast thou taught the very savages to turn a compliment?"
she said. "Truly, sir, thou hast not labored in vain."
"They know no better than to tell the truth," I answered, a smile upon
my face. "'Tis from the heart, and not from the lips as in London."
She made no answer, but turning her head looked out upon the dark
river, as its waters glistened and sparkled in the moonlight. And I
watched her lovely profile as she sat thus.
"It is beautiful, is it not?" she said softly.
"Very beautiful," I answered, as I still gazed at her. I was thinking
of her face, and if I but dared to lean over and press my lips to that
soft cheek, which so lately had lain against my shoulder.
She stamped her little foot.
"Where are thy wits?" she said. "Thou lookest off as though in a dream,
and I venture to say that thou knowest not one word that I have said."
"Margaret," I answered, "I would know one thing. The priest once showed
me a paper in thy hand and stamped with thy crest, in which thou didst
say that thou lovest Dunraven, and would be his wife. It almost shook
my faith in God and man, that thou, whom I believed so pure and noble,
shouldst love one so black as he. I had thought to ask thee that night
in the prison, but it slipped my mind. Tell me, didst thou write such a
note as this?"
"And thou thinkest that I would do such a thing as that?" she answered,
with a look of reproach. "For shame, Sir Thomas! Have I ever in my
whole life given thee cause to think thus of me?"
"Forgive me," I replied. "But the note was in thy handwriting, upon thy
paper, and scented with thy perfume."
"Thou mightst have known better," she answered gravely, and she looked
out again upon the river.
"Oh, man," she cried in scorn, "canst thou never believe that a woman
cares naught but for wealth and fame; that she plans for naught but
rank and position, and that her mind is ever filled with thoughts of
conquest?"
"I know of one lady who, I think is all that mortal should be," I
answered; "whose pure soul can hold no unworthy thought."
"And who pray may this person be? Fain would I know such a one," and
she looked up again at me, smiling faintly.
"Thou knowest her well," I answered quickly; "she is perhaps thy best
friend."
"I know not of whom thou speakest," she cried innocently, or was it but
a subterfuge--"unless it be the Lady Jane Porter."
"'Tis thyself, Margaret," I answered. "Thou art the one of whom I
speak," and I bent forward to look into her face.
But she had drawn herself up, as her eye caught sight of the silent
Indian maid behind me, who with keen gaze followed her every movement.
"Enough," she replied coldly. "I did not angle for a compliment," and
she turned her head aside as though to end the conversation.
"Thou art tired," I said. "Let me wrap thy robe about thee, and thou
shalt rest in the bow of the canoe."
"I am not tired," she replied, "and I would prefer to sit and watch the
changing river as we glide along."
But I insisted upon her taking some rest, and she finally consented;
for though she would not acknowledge it, she was plainly tired.
Long I sat in the center of the canoe. The Indian girl had relinquished
her paddle, and was now slumbering behind me. Only the tireless Manteo
urged the boat through the water, his steady strokes unflagging as
hour after hour passed. I sat opposite him until after midnight. Then
despite his protest I took the paddle from his hands, and bidding him
snatch some sleep, I took his post and with my sound arm made shift to
paddle the canoe. So I sat until the dawn crept slowly above the trees.
My lady was up early, and with a light song upon her lips, chided me
for sitting up till day. She was like a little merry-hearted child this
morning, as she ran to and fro upon the boat. I had seen her often and
in many moods--as the stately lady of fashion in silks and satins; as
the plain simple maid, dimpled with smiles, going for her walk in the
city of London; had seen her as she archly tossed her head at some
nicely-turned compliment; had seen her in tears, as on the night when
she visited me in London--but I had never seen her half so lovely as
now.
Even the silent Manteo brightened up under the spell of my lady's good
humor--only Winona seemed moody and ill at ease. And so passed long,
happy days for me, as we floated down the river. I cared not to return
to the world again, for me it meant to lose Margaret, and perhaps my
head.
It was hard, Heaven knows, to sit and watch her face; to listen to
the sound of her sweet, low voice, and to keep down the great wave
of love for her that welled up in my heart; to speak no word of all
those tender ones, that it seemed impossible to suppress. But I fought
against my love like a man, for she was Bobby's, the finest gentleman
I had ever known and my best friend. Moreover she was in my hands, and
I would fulfill my trust; I would take no advantage of her position to
pour my love into her unwilling ears. She should go back to England and
Bobby, and forget me.
Once when I mentioned Bobby's name, I had seen a blush upon her cheek,
and I thought her blue eye grew softer; the demon of jealously arose
in my breast, and I mentioned his name no more. Turning to her, I said:
"Lady Margaret, wouldst thou grant me one favor?"
"Yes," she replied, and she turned her head away from me. "What is it,
Sir Thomas?"
"Wilt thou, when thou raisest thy voice in prayer to God offer up one
supplication for a wicked, sinful man, that he may triumph over the
tempter, who daily and hourly besets him?"
"Yes," she answered gently, and a tear dropped from her blue eyes. "I
will pray for thee, Sir Thomas, that thou mayest fight a brave fight,
and win a noble victory over thyself."
And now we had left the canoe, and under the guidance of Manteo plunged
again into the forest afoot. To my remonstrances that the lady could
not endure the journey, he had turned a deaf ear.
"Better that, than to fall into the hands of the Tuscaroras," he said
stolidly. "Here in the woods Manteo can guard better against them than
on the water," and so afoot we had gone.
Margaret had made light of my gloomy forebodings.
"Out upon thee, sir!" cried she archly. "One would think that I was
some pretty toy, from which the rain would wash the paint, that I
cannot keep the trail with thee in the forest."
"Fair lady, perhaps thou wilt remember my warning when thou art
footsore from the march," I answered. "But if thou art determined,
come!" And I led the way after the Indian, with her at my side.
The long journey was sweet to me, for I walked by her side much of the
time. I helped her over some fallen log, or held aside an overhanging
limb so that she might pass beneath it. Often I would bring down some
wild fowl with the Indian's bow, with which I had become expert, and
browning it upon the coals, would bring a choice piece to my lady,
where she sat enthroned under some monarch of the forest, and dropping
upon one knee, with mock humility would present it to her, while she
with stately air, albeit with a merry twinkle in her eye, would accept
it right royally.
Both Manteo and I were her willing slaves, for the Indian had fallen
under her spell too, and worshiped the very ground upon which she
stood. Winona would have naught to do with Margaret, but scornfully and
disdainfully held herself aloof, and to all her advances turned a cold
shoulder.
We were nearing our journey's end now, and as I sat brooding moodily
over the camp fire, my head bent low over my hands, I thought bitterly
of the future. I could not return to England and see Margaret become
the bride of another. No, I would go back with Manteo into the
wilderness after I had seen my lady safely upon her ship, and there I
would spend the remainder of my life with the faithful Indian.
But what if White, despairing of my return and finding no trace of the
lost colony, had raised anchor and sailed back to England. What, then,
would become of Margaret? Manteo had told me on his return, only a
few days ago, that the Governor had found no trace of the colonists,
and but awaited my arrival to set sail. If he should tire of my long
absence, what should I do with my lady? A selfish joy at the thought
welled up within me, but I resolutely put it away. A light step
interrupted my thoughts, and looking up, I saw before me Winona. The
girl had her bow in hand and on her shoulder was strapped a robe, as
though ready for a journey.
"What is it, Winona?" I asked, as she stood motionless before me.
"Winona goes back again to the lodges of the Cherokees," she answered.
"Long she has traveled from her people, and her heart yearns for the
faces of her tribe. The Eagle has flown far, and now he journeys with
the beautiful one to the land of his home. Winona cannot travel so far.
Her feet would tire, and she would return to where Windango awaits her."
"Winona," I answered, "thou canst not return to the Cherokees; they
would slay thee. I am a wanderer upon the face of the earth and can do
naught for thee myself, but I will ask the Lady Margaret to take thee
with her. She is a great lady and thy lot would be an easy one, with so
fair a mistress."
"Nay," she answered, "Winona will remain with her people. Windango is
a great chief and I shall be safe with him--besides," and she hung her
head.
"What?" I asked kindly. "Speak freely, thou needst fear naught."
She raised her head proudly, her dark eyes looking into mine.
"Why should I fear to tell it?" she cried. "Winona loves the Eagle; she
knows that his heart belongs to the beautiful one, and that he will fly
far away with her to his wigwam. Shall Winona go to eat out her heart
with sorrow at the bliss she cannot share? No, she returns to her own.
Thou art near thy journey's end. Two days more and thou wilt stand on
the Island of Roanoke--Winona would leave thee now."
"But, Winona," I cried, "I go not back to England with Lady Margaret!"
She looked intently at me.
"Dost love the beautiful one?" she asked fiercely. "Answer me the truth
at this last moment."
"Yes," I answered simply, "I love her."
"And thou wouldst ask me to serve her?" she cried. "One whom thou
lovest? Wouldst thou have served the chief whom thou didst chase over
the precipice, if the beautiful one had loved him?"
"No," I answered. "Thou knowest I would not." I could say no more, so I
stood silent and waited.
"Winona will not forget the Eagle," she said in a low voice. "When she
grows to be an old woman, she will tell how she once knew and loved the
great white chief. Winona knows the Eagle and the beautiful one will be
happy."
"Winona," I said sadly, "the Lady Margaret loves another."
"Winona is not blind," she replied, "the beautiful one loves the Eagle.
Sharp are the eyes of love to discover love. And now," she said, as
I stood staggered by her last words, "Winona would tell the Eagle
farewell, for she knows she will see him no more." And catching my hand
in hers, she pressed it to her lips. Then turning, she sped lightly
away.
"Winona," I cried, "come back! Go not thus!" but only the moaning of
the pines answered me--she was gone.
A light step from the other side of the fire, and my lady stood before
me, her face wet with tears. One look at her, and I knew she had heard
all.
"She has gone!" she cried. "Not back into the woods? Quick! After her,
thou mayest yet save her."
"'Tis useless," I answered quietly, "she is far into the depths of the
forest by now--besides, why should I bring her back? She is better
thus. Thou hast heard what she said, and thou knowest why she left."
"I but rested upon the other side of the fire," she answered hurriedly,
"when her voice fell upon my ear. I could not withdraw without being
seen by her, so I was forced to play the spy against my will."
"It matters not," I replied; "there was naught said that I would not
have thee know. But sit down, Lady Margaret. I have a few words to say
to thee, before we part forever." I motioned her to a seat upon a stone
in front of me.
"I am about to reopen a painful subject for the last time, but as we
part in a day or two, I would wish to speak of it again. I cannot go
back to England; it would be sheer madness to return and face the
Queen. And after all, England holds naught for me but sorrow and pain.
I have passed from the lives of those I once knew, as the dead leaves
of last year's trees, and I shall return no more.
"Margaret," I said, "I cannot go back into those great wastes behind
me, without telling thee of what my love for thee has been to me. It
has been a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night; it
has been the sweetest drop in the bitter cup of life. Life would be
worth the struggle, had it held naught else for me save this. See," I
continued, "I found months ago by the trail, this little miniature of
thee. I have kept it ever since where I could feast my eyes upon it. I
am a better man because I have known and loved thee."
"Thou art the noblest gentleman I have ever known," she sobbed. "I am
unworthy of such love as this."
"No," I answered, "thou art worthy of a finer, truer man, and such a
love thou hast. When thou art happy in thy far-away home, wilt thou
not think of one who loves thee and wanders in exile in Virginia? The
grass is green in old England now, Margaret, and the birds are singing
on every hedge; greet the old place for me, and remember me to my old
friends, Bobby and Steele, for I shall never see them more."
"I will think of thee often," she answered, the tears still in her
azure eyes. "Must thou remain here, alone in this strange land?"
"Yes," I answered, "my place is here. I could not bear to see thee the
bride of another."
"Am I to be wedded without my consent, sir?" she said archly, and she
broke into a low, sweet laugh.
"But thou dost love Bobby? Thou didst as good as tell me that in the
prison yonder in England."
"Thou didst take it for granted," she said shyly. "I was overpowered
with sorrow at thy sad plight, and thou didst jump at the conclusion
that I loved Sir Robert," and she looked at me, a smile shining through
her tears.
"Whom dost thou love, if not Bobby?" I cried in wonder. "Dost love
anyone, Margaret?" and I bent low over the golden head.
"Yes," she answered softly, "I love a gentleman, brave, strong, noble,
with a heart as true as steel; one who has loved me long."
"Who is it, Margaret?"
She looked up at me, with a smile soft and sweet, at which my heart
gave a great bound of joy--it could not be. No, I must be dreaming.
"Must I tell thee, stupid? Are thy wits gone wool-gathering?"
With a great cry of joy I took her in my arms, smiles, blushes, and
tears, and held her close to my heart.
"Dear," I cried, "I never dreamed of this. Why didst thou not tell me
before now?"
"Because thou didst not ask me. Oh, Thomas, why didst thou not ask me
that night in the prison?"
"Margaret," I said, "thou shouldst love one handsome and young like
thyself. Thou wilt be ashamed of me, sweet one, when thou seest me by
the side of some gay, debonair, young gallant."
But she gently placed one soft white hand over my lips.
"Hush, not one word more, or I will vanish into yonder woods. Thou art
more handsome in my eyes than any velvet gallant, for thou hast become
a man of deeds, not words. Thou wilt go back with me to England," she
whispered, her face close to mine; "together we can face the Queen, and
I will have thee pardoned."
"Yes," I answered, "come what will, we go back together."
"When didst thou first love me, Margaret?" I asked, my eyes upon the
bright head against my shoulder.
"I do not know," she said. "I only know that as I stood beside thee in
the prison cell in London, I knew that thy life was strangely precious
to me. But good-night," she said, "I must keep my roses or thou wilt
soon tire of me." And slipping from me, she tripped lightly away.
A light hand touched my arm. I turned and saw Manteo.
"The beautiful one will go with the Eagle to his lodge and be his
squaw?" he said gravely.
"Yes," I answered, "she will go."
"Manteo is glad," he said simply, "for it is meet that the lady who
is lovely beyond all mortal beauty, should go into the lodge with the
Eagle, who is a great chief."
"I thank thee, Manteo." And I followed him down by the camp fire, and
stretched myself out upon my bearskin.
My mind was in a whirl--I had not dreamed that Margaret loved me.
I--gray, penniless; she--young and beautiful beyond compare. And with
thoughts such as these, and of the future, I fell asleep.