“For my own sake, deeply. We have been friends.”
“Ay,” said the poet, “friends. Friendship’s the reality; love but a pleasant dream. I look back over the past five years and think of our conversations. I recall, too, those few hours when I talked with Mistress Dare. The difference is plain. Man and man enjoy the freer reverie. No personal distraction mars their elemental thought. They become unbiased lookers-on at life, unfettered by the stage directions. To them the lover’s star hath varied cosmic meanings which far transcend its amorous spell. To them all nature shows her heart, and not the mere reflection of their own. Ay, only with man and man is meditation free—unless—of course, unless—the dream of love hath proven true.” The last words came in a voice of pain, which, however, passed as he added, mechanically, “But come, here is the canoe.”
Following the poet, Vytal stepped into the craft, and with a single stroke of his paddle sent it far out across the inlet. With long, slow sweeps he propelled it on in silence, while Marlowe, facing him, gazed at the sharp-cut features with a kind of worship in his eyes.
“Hath any yet known you, Vytal? Hath one single man or woman probed your depths?”
Vytal shrugged his shoulders for reply, then said, in a voice that sounded harsh even to himself, “We are come to your starting-point,” and, as they landed, “Where is the ship?”
“Five miles to the north.”
“Let us hasten, then, by the shore.”
They walked for many minutes mutely, until Vytal spoke as though half to himself: “I would have made the sacrifice in your stead, but for these children of Croatan, these helpless colonists, who are in my charge.”