“By all means let us hasten to the attack. Towaye, the Indian who guided me from Roanoke, has gone with provisions to meet his highness near the town.”
In the main cabin of an English ship still a third couple conversed with as much import in their words as the second.
“There is yet no sign?”
“Not yet, Captain Vytal.”
“They will carry no lights, Dyonis.”
“Nay, sir, I look for a black shadow, and listen for the ripple under its bow.”
As though the hand of Death were on them, the ships and the town lay still. Only a single circle of light, like a watchful eye with a dark iris, shone through an aperture in the fortress wall. The central disk was a cannon’s muzzle.
On the ramparts of the fort a man stood alone, looking out across the water. It was Christopher Marlowe, alert, restless, and impatient.
Below him, in the armory, a small gathering of women and soldiers, under the immediate command of Captain Pomp, sat about in groups, waiting. In one corner, apart from the rest, Eleanor Dare and her father talked in low tones, while Margery Harvie, on a bench beside them, crooned a lullaby to an infant that lay sleeping in her lap.