“Now will I show myself
To have more of the serpent than the dove;
That is—more knave than fool.”
—MARLOWE, in _The Jew of Malta_.
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.
Mistress Croyden herself was undeniably the life and key-note of the
extravagant orgie, dancing, and dancing as only impulse led her, in
utter _abandon_ and unrestrainable liberty of motion, until her little
feet sped to no tune, but outstripped Prat’s endeavors—madly, riotously
leaped, tripped, pirouetted, glided, and were never still. She whirled
first, then ran forward as though on wings, then, bending low in mock
courtesy to her bulky partner, receded as if to vanish in the air.
Her curls, tumbling about her shoulders, shone like gold in the sun’s
last rays; her velvet cap had fallen to the ground as though it, with
decorum, had been thrown wildly to the winds.
She had not seen Vytal and Rouse, who held back within the wood, but the
sight of a long row of dusky faces looking at her wonderingly from the
water’s margin seemed only to increase the madness of her dance. The
Indians stood near their canoes, spellbound before departing. Indeed,
they could not depart until this preterhuman apparition, with its phantom
bear and spirit of a woman, had dissolved, as it surely must, like a
dream.
Suddenly, obeying some new whim, Roger slackened the speed of his
Pan-like music and subdued the strains to a more pensive melody. In
perfect accord with the change, Gyll Croyden fell to a slower motion, a
dance no more definite, but only less eccentric and vivacious. With a
sensuous, mystical step she seemed to sway and flow into the heart of a
new song that her bird’s voice lilted softly, and she looked no longer
at the bear. As if resenting this new indifference, King Lud fell to his
natural position with a growl, and, returning to Roger, sat disconsolate
at the player’s side. Then Gyll sank down breathless near him and used
the shaggy shoulder as a cushion for support, her curls shining against
the rough background of his coat, her song dying in a laugh.
She had no fear of the brute, for through all those days when his master
had been unexpectedly absent on the fly-boat, she and she alone had
ventured to attend King Lud, coaxing and scolding him into a condition of
amity and servitude. As the pipe, with a wailing _finale_, became silent,
Vytal and Rouse stepped into the opening.
Instantly Roger Prat, a somewhat sheepish trepidity in his bulging eyes,
jumped up from the tabor, and, thrusting the pipe with an obvious
attempt at concealment into his belt, bowed low before them. “Thus,”
he ventured, waving his fat hand at the dark figures on the water’s
edge—“thus we tame the redskins.”
“And a king,” added Gyll Croyden, stroking the bear’s nose with delicate
fingers. She was looking down at King Lud, for somehow her laughing
eyes persisted in avoiding the face of Vytal. Yet they were by no means
bashful.
Rouse looked down at Prat. “Vagabond,” he muttered, under his heavy
mustache, “Bubble-wit!”
But Roger only turned on the big soldier a glance of mimic scorn and
commiseration, mumbling some retort, in which “Ox” and “Blunderbuss” were
alone intelligible.
These courtesies were quickly interrupted by Vytal, who spoke a word or
two in low tones to Prat. Immediately that worthy was transformed. His
hand came forward from the flute to his sword-hilt. The merriment died
out of his face, while a look almost stern and forbidding, yet, curiously
enough, not at all incongruous, crossed his stubby features.
The Indians, one by one, withdrew to their canoes and vanished into the
deepening darkness. The three soldiers and Gyll Croyden, turning their
backs to the water, started homeward. But suddenly they heard a light,
grating sound behind them on the shore, and a voice, calling to them in
pure English, caused them to turn about again with extreme surprise.
A man, wearing a rusty steel corselet and bonnet, a sword, and shabby
leathern breeches, was dragging a canoe onto the beach. Having drawn
the prow with an evident effort to security among the weeds and tall
grasses that lined the glade, he came staggering forward to the amazed
on-lookers, and crying aloud, “At last! at last!” fell apparently
lifeless at their feet.
Quickly, with a woman’s eternal instinct, Gyll Croyden ran to the water,
took off her neckerchief, wetted it, and returned to the prone figure
with ready aid. Drawing off his heavy headgear, she then bathed the man’s
temples, and bidding Prat bring the helmet to her, filled with water,
presently dashed the cooling liquid in her patient’s face. “Poor boy!”
she exclaimed, for the face, despite its full beard and long mustache,
was very young.
Perhaps half an hour elapsed before signs of returning consciousness
rewarded her efforts. Then, slowly, a pair of blue eyes opened and looked
into hers, after which, painfully, the forlorn soldier stood upon his
feet.
A volley of questions rose to the lips of Gyll and Roger; but Vytal, who
had stood watching the mysterious stranger in silence, disappointed their
curiosity.
“It grows dark,” he said, addressing the youth. “An you, sir, can walk,
we had best hasten to the town.”
The other, seeming to have regained his strength with surprising
suddenness, declared, “If it be not too far, I can accompany you with
little aid.”
“The darkness matters not,” averred Prat. “See, I have brought a
lanthorn.” And, so saying, he lighted the sheltered candle with flint and
steel. Handing the lanthorn to Gyll, who, like a will-o’-the-wisp, led
the way into the forest, he then lent assistance to Rouse in supporting
the stranger. For several minutes they followed the trail without
speaking; but soon their ragged charge broke the silence. He spoke as
though to himself, in a voice suggestive of vague reminiscence. Presently
his words became more audible, the broken phrases more coherent. “A
year,” he said—“a year in hell!” And then, in a clear, low tone, “There
were fifteen men of us, just fifteen men, all damned save one.”
“My God!” ejaculated Rouse, halting suddenly; and Roger, coming likewise
to a stand-still, stood surveying the youthful, bearded face, with mouth
agape in mute amazement.
Vytal turned, but, fearing to break the spell of memory, said nothing.
And Gyll Croyden, who had half caught the meaning of the words, returned
to the group with her lanthorn. Holding the light high, so that its
dim rays fell athwart the stranger’s face, she, too, gazed into the
boyish blue eyes with wonder and impatience. As the features were thus
illuminated, Vytal’s expression changed. In a voice that surprised
its hearers by an unaccustomed vagueness of tone, which matched in
uncertainty the youth’s own accents, he demanded, slowly, “Your name,
sir; first, your name.”
The blue eyes met Vytal’s look squarely, but, blending with their
candor, a peculiar, veiled expression suggested to the keen observer an
incongruous amusement.
“Ralph Contempt.”
“Ralph Contempt!” echoed Roger, in an undertone. “It hath the sound of a
stage conceit.”
The stranger turned to him, smiling feebly. “You speak as though I had
christened myself. Believe me, it is a miracle that I remember the name
at all.” His phrases became wandering again, and he passed a hand across
his forehead. “Fifteen men,” he laughed aloud. “Fifteen to guard the
possessions of their gracious queen. Fifteen soldiers … very brave, I
assure you … fifteen in the middle of hell … but so brave, mark you,
that a horde of rampant devils, with firebrands and a myriad whistling
arrows, hesitated, really hesitated, in very fear before them. A thousand
red demons … and, oh, what a song the weapons sang! It laughs in my ears
even now.” He smiled with a look that only intensified the horror of his
words by its genuine gayety. “Fourteen men damned, dead and damned …
worse yet, one man alive to be played with … oh, ’twas a merry game in
hell! A game of pall-mall, a new kind of badminton … painted devils, you
know, and then the toy, the ball, the shuttlecock, the hobby-horse, call
it what you will—that crawling thing in the centre, scorched and sore
… behold, my masters, the toy!” He drew himself up to his full height
and looked from one to another, laughing. With the exception of Vytal,
the listeners could not but avert their glance—Hugh Rouse touching his
brow significantly; Prat, with a grave nod, concurring in the verdict.
Gyll Croyden turned away with tears in her eyes, and retraced her steps
on the homeward trail. It was not until she had forgetfully left them
in darkness, her light but a dim spark among the trees, that the others
followed her. Vytal walked on alone in deep thought, the unfortunate
bringing up the rear with lagging step between Prat and Rouse, who
maintained a gloomy silence. Occasionally the youth would laugh, and,
seeming to recall some incident of a terrible combat and captivity, would
travesty the same with the inconsistency of dementia.
It was late in the evening when the little party arrived at its
destination. A sentry, guarding the main entrance of the palisade, which
by now had been completed, peered through a chink in the upright logs.
Vytal, from without, uttered the watch-word, for the sentry’s ears alone.
Instantly they were admitted, the guardian of the town’s security
glancing curiously at the unknown figure of Ralph Contempt.
“In the morning,” whispered Prat, “you shall hear all.” And turning to
Vytal, he asked: “Whither, captain, shall we conduct the man? To a pallet
in the fortress near our own?”
“Nay, he will perhaps fare better with me;” then, to the subject of their
discussion, “I trust, Master Contempt, you will accept the hospitality of
myself and one other for a day or two at least.”
The youth bowed courteously. “I thank you,” he said, and, with that
laugh which seemed to deride Fate itself, or, perhaps more subtly, the
listeners, he added, “’Tis desirable to be a guest now and then, instead
of a plaything.”
He went with Vytal to the secluded house beyond the enclosure. In the
main room they found Marlowe sitting at a table, his arms thrown out over
the rough pine top, his head resting on them in an attitude of sleep. A
candle, sadly in need of snuffers, flickered across a page of manuscript
that lay crumpled in his hands.
On hearing Vytal enter, the poet awoke slowly; but, seeing the face
behind his friend, as it came within the candle-light, he rose from his
chair with an exclamation of surprise.
“The sole survivor,” announced Vytal, “of our fifteen men.”
“What!”
“But a plaything,” added Ralph, with a deprecatory wave of his hand. “A
mere babery for naked red-boys.”
Marlowe took up the candle and held it nearer the speaker’s face. Then,
with less surprise and more commiseration, “Forgive me,” he said, “for my
unmannerly welcome, but for the moment your features seemed familiar to
me, as though I had seen them in a dream.”
The new-comer returned his gaze with a dazed expression. “I _am_ a dream.”
The poet glanced at Vytal meaningly. “He needs rest; let him sleep on my
bed. I will make a couch of grasses for myself.”
When finally they heard the regular breathing of their guest, who lay
comfortably on Marlowe’s bed, Vytal told of the meeting on the shore and
of Ralph Contempt’s broken narrative.
“Poor devil!” mused the poet. “He whose bones we found scattered here was
far more fortunate.”
“I thought I knew this man’s face,” said Vytal. “’Tis strange that you,
too, should have imagined a recognition.”
“Nay, it was but the eyes that seemed familiar. Doubtless there are many
like them of Saxon blue, blighted by the undue levity of a disordered
brain. The fellow, most like, has been a wild thing, little better than a
beast. Saw you ever such a growth of hair on head and chin?”
“No, it ill becomes the youthful face—the face—” Vytal paused and fell
again to thinking.
“The face,” echoed Marlowe, looking over to the sleeper. “Perchance we
saw it before the man left England, before he came hither a year ago to
meet his doom.”
“It is probable,” allowed Vytal; “if, indeed, we saw the face at all.”