CHAPTER XI
“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.”