“Yes.” Her look had a strange penitence in it and no triumph. He dimly understood the reason, and an expression of pain crossed his own features. But there was not a trace of condemnation in the deep-set eyes, his faith being perfect. “Yes,” she added, in a whisper, as though half to herself, “’twas for our colony I led him on. But oh, if by any chance he should escape—”
“It would matter little,” broke in Vytal.
“How so?”
“He has failed. You have frustrated his plan to estimate our strength. Even were he to return, he could impart naught of value to the others. But stay, in what room have you imprisoned him?”
“In the main cabin.”
“That is well. His knowledge of the fortress would avail them nothing. St. Magil, I doubt not, knows the force and number of our arms. ’Tis mainly my new arrangement of the ships that holds the key to our defence. Thus, Mistress Dare, even should he escape, which he must not, you have accomplished that which I had not supposed within a woman’s range to compass. I thank you—deeply.”
Her face brightened for the instant, but, as he walked away, she returned to her home sadly, as though even the skilful winning of her first play had brought only an ephemeral gladness.
Vytal had but just crossed the square when Marlowe, having entered the town from the north, joined him. The poet was dishevelled from his hasty pursuit through the forest and extremely agitated. “Gyll Croyden has been captured by the Indians!”
“Who told you that?”