“Let them try,” returned Vytal. “I care not; now, farewell.”
“Farewell.” The two separated abruptly, and Marlowe, with a light step, artificially careless, made his way to the headland beyond which lay the Breton shallop awaiting him.
In the evening, under cover of darkness, a canoe, propelled by one man, came stealthily to the southern shore of Croatan, and went away again with two occupants. Later these two boarded a vessel that hovered about near the mainland. The ship, the canoe, the people were shadows—all wraiths of unreality. But suddenly, after the vessel had crept away, far to the eastward, and the land was seen no more, a low, weird song arose at the first moment of light. It was from many voices, sailorly and strong, but the tongue and the tune were strange save to the stalwart singers.
“Ann eoriou zo savet; setu ar flik-ha-flok!
Krenvat ra ann avel; mont a reomp kaer a-rog;
Stegna reeur ar gweliou; ann douar a bella;
Va c’halon, siouaz d’in; ne ra med huanada.…”
(“The anchors are up; hark to the flik-flok!
The wind freshens; we speed on our course;
The sails blow full; the land recedes;