CHAPTER III
“Oh, must this day be period of my life?”
—Marlowe, in Edward the Second.
As Vytal turned from Frazer his face changed. The look of cold hate gave way to an even deeper expression of sadness, which, mellowing his bleak visage as the sunset glow softens the outlines of a rock, bespoke tender concern and apprehension.
Around Roger a crowd had gathered, to the centre of which Vytal gravely made his way.
The soldier lay prone and silent, the bearskin, which had been folded, forming a pillow for his head. He had evidently regained consciousness, yet from his bared chest a stream of blood welled slowly. Frazer’s weapon had pierced a lung.
Beside him knelt Hugh Rouse, imploring him to speak. “Call me names, Roger; berate me an you will for sleeping; but say ’tis no mortal wound.”
A chirurgeon who stood near by shook his head. “’Tis, indeed, mortal,” he declared.
And Roger’s eyes rolling up to the chirurgeon’s face seemed to repeat, “Yes, mortal.”
As the firelight was now obscured by the crowd, several soldiers, snatching resinous branches from the blaze, held them aloft to look once more upon their comrade’s face. Vytal bent over the dying man. “Dost know me, Roger?”
Slowly the lips parted as the round head shifted restlessly. “Yea, well; and always I shall know you. Body o’ me! not know Captain Vytal—I, Prat, who have followed him through thick and thin? ’Tis impossible.”
He raised his head and smiled at Rouse. “And you, too, my dwarfish soul—how could I mistake that shock o’ flaxen hair?” He passed a hand over the giant’s head affectionately; then, rising with pain to one elbow, turned again to Vytal.
“You have saved us,” said the captain, “but at what a cost!”
Prat made a deprecatory gesture. “Ay, thank God! saved you,” he replied; “yet have a care. This Frazer hath heard me prating to Rouse anent our weakness. You’ll look to it, no doubt, he conveys not the information to that peacock, the Spanish admiral. But, ah me, the young wild-slip hath killed King Lud. My last pet is departed. Oh, why did I not know his Majesty would never crawl away like a whipped cur? In troth ’twas most unnatural. Yet the darkness favored him—the darkness—i’ faith ’tis even darker now.” With an effort, he put a hand to his belt, and, drawing out the flute that for so long had been silent, held it to his lips. But, without sounding a single strain, he let it fall with one of his old grimaces. “Nay,” he muttered, “not a note; ne’ertheless, when I’m gone, ‘Be merry, friends; a fig for care and a fig for woe; be merry, friends.’” He sank back exhausted and closed his eyes.
“He is dead,” groaned Hugh.
But Roger, with a drawn smile, eyed him sideways. “Not dead by any means, poor dullard. No, not yet dead.”
At this his face brightened for a moment, and he groped in the breast of his doublet near the wound. Several fine threads of gold were woven round his fingers, but no one saw them. “Take nothing from me,” he said; and then, withdrawing his hand, smiled almost bitterly. “’Tis just as well I die, for my life, as the song saith, hath been lived to ‘please one and please all,’ everlastingly ‘please one and please all, so pipeth the crow sitting upon a wall.’ Welladay, let the crow pipe on, but Roger pipeth no longer.”
His bulging eyes flashed suddenly in the cressets’ glare. “Nay, I’m no piper, but a fighting-man,” whereupon, rising once more with a great effort to one elbow, he drew his broadsword and for a moment held it aloft. Then slowly, as the flame died out of his eyes, he pointed with it toward the palisade. “Bury me over there,” he said, eagerly, “beyond the town—over there in the glade, Captain Vytal, near the western shore. ’Tis where she danced, you’ll remember, and King Lud cut capers before the Indians. There I’ll lie in peace, and think o’ the old mirthfulness, and sometimes the sound of your guns will come to remind me I’m a soldier.” He held out the heavy blade to Vytal. “Lay it unsheathed beside me, captain; also the flute and uppowac pipe.” Once again his head fell to the bearskin pillow. “You might shroud me,” he added, feebly, “with all that remains of poor King Lud.”
“It shall be done as you require,” said Vytal, hoarsely.
And now there was silence save for the light rustle through the forest of a new-come breeze, which fanned the tearful cheeks of the watchers and set the many torches flickering so that their light wavered uncertainly across the dying man. Roger’s eyes were closed, yet once more his lips parted. “‘Be merry, friends,’” and, with an old, familiar smile, he died.
When at last day dawned a striking scene was visible on the shore.
In the prow of his long-boat, not over twenty feet from the beach, stood the Spanish admiral, while from the brink of the water Vytal spoke to him.
Farther up the strand twelve musketeers were ranged in line with weapons aimed, not at the long-boat’s crew, but at a single figure that stood against the cliff. This form, slight and graceful, was nevertheless distinctly masculine in bearing. With eyes blindfolded, mouth gagged, and hands fettered behind his back, the man awaited his fate calmly.
But the fate was yet unknown. The musketeers stolidly awaited the last signal from their leader, and the signal was delayed.
“You perceive,” said Vytal to the admiral, “that your friend’s life is in imminent danger. At a word from me he falls, but at the word I desire from you he lives and shall be saved.”
The Spaniard bowed haughtily. “Name your conditions,” and with a sweep of their oars the rowers drew nearer to the shore. Vytal turned and glanced upward at the headland, from which the colonists were looking down in silent curiosity. Foremost of all stood Eleanor Dare watching him.
He faced about again to address the admiral. “The condition is this: that you abandon to us the Madre de Dios in exchange for the prisoner. Your spy hath broken our truce. There are but two available indemnities—the one your ship, the other his life as forfeit. I bid you choose.”
An ironical smile crossed the Spaniard’s face. “Do you consider his life of so great value?” he asked, banteringly.
“Nay,” said Vytal, “I but seek to estimate your own valuation. This fellow hath boasted of a royal guardian—even the King of Spain.”
The admiral bit his lip. “But how am I to make certain that you act in good faith?”
Vytal turned sharply to the musketeers and raised his hand, while his lips parted. The marksmen’s eyes came down closer to their aim, and there was a concerted click.
“Stay!” cried the Spaniard, in alarm. “I agree to your proviso.”
Vytal’s hand fell, and the sharp-shooters stood at rest. “To-night,” said the soldier, “we shall be ready to man your vessel.”
Slowly the long-boat withdrew, and now Eleanor, having come down from the headland, stood at Vytal’s side. Her face was flushed with excited hope and admiration. “You have worked our salvation, captain.”
“Nay,” he returned, harshly, “not yet.”