“We shall be soon,” laughed Prat, “for to-morrow we leave Roanoke and join the Hatteras Indians.”
“God’s pity! They will exterminate us.”
At this Manteo, who until now had remained immobile as stone, started forward, but Vytal, with a word, restrained him, and, turning to the assistant, spoke in a low voice, so that Eleanor might not hear his accusation. “Master Dare, you insult a benefactor. Manteo is no murderer, but a generous host. Bridle your tongue.” The tone was authoritative and coldly harsh, but the very cowardice of Ananias, paradoxically enough, gave him moments of obstinate courage. Many there are who fight desperately to retreat: fear is bold in its own interests.
“Who gave you command?” he queried. “’Twas I suggested to the governor that John Vytal should assume control. My voice, therefore, deserves the heed of all; and I say build a ship. By all means let us haste to England.” He turned at the last and addressed the women nearest to him, while the hands of Prat and Rouse went impulsively to their sword-hilts, and their glance hung on Vytal’s face, asking permission to end the matter immediately with summary decision. But the captain only scrutinized the group searchingly.
“Master Dare,” ventured Roger, “harangues the women. His words are not for us. Oh ho, good dames, give ear. Ye’re to man a ship—woman a ship, I mean. Now, one shall be Mistress Jack-Woman, another Dame Captain, another Sailing-Mistress. In troth, ’tis a lusty crew.”
Ananias turned on him angrily. “Sirrah, have a care, else you shall feel the grip of a hand-lock within the hour.”
But Roger responded with a laugh. “Now, what’s a hand-lock, Master Assistant? You’ve so often made mention of the thing as befitting my exalted station, that methinks ’tis time it were proven real.”
He would have given his raillery free rein and run on further, but Vytal interrupted him. “Desist, Roger; your tongue runs riot most unseemly. The irons are real indeed, and here’s a hand shall lock them an you show not greater deference to superiors.”
Ananias smiled at this with triumph, and resumed his appeal. “I ask you, my masters, is it not far better to risk a thousand storms by sea than encounter death by torture or slow starvation? I doubt not the Indian chieftain is well meaning, but so also is Sir Walter Raleigh; yet to what a pass hath his invitation brought us! The time is come to save ourselves.” He hesitated, for at this moment his daughter, the little Virginia, who had chased a humming-bird across the square, stopped in her flight and looked up at him. When his eyes fell to hers he winced perceptibly, and then his face, flushing for an instant, seemed superlatively beautiful under the recall of a lost masculinity. But suddenly his glance wandered to Eleanor, who stood aloof watching him, and the old, drawn, pallid look reasserted itself, whereat, slowly, he turned on his heel and, with eyes shamefully cast down, re-entered the cabin of Gyll Croyden.
“On the morrow,” said Vytal, “we go to Croatan.”