“Lungs,” he assented, gravely; “but, White Doe, see here!” He pointed to a small tabor that hung by his side. “I have brought this drum wherewith to celebrate. Hark to Roger’s tattoo!” And, drawing from his belt a pair of drum-sticks, he marched about, with a rat-a-tat-tat-tat-too. “Sing, ho, the taborin, little taborin,” he cried, “merry taborin,” and his sticks danced furiously on the drum. He was thinking of England, and of the chance that he might return to forgive Gyll Croyden.
But Virginia, pouting, turned away. “That is not music,” she said to the Indian. “He is changed.”
Hers was the only frown that, until now, had crossed a face that morning. Hilarity laid hold on the jubilant throng, and turned all save the most serious ones to children.
Musket-shots rang out in celebration; cheer on cheer filled the air, until, growing hoarse with their incessant huzzahs, planters, soldiers, traders, wives, daughters, sons, and even lonely widows and orphans, still kept waving their arms to the distant ships in silence. And still Roger, with King Lud in his wake, went the round, now gesticulating in the air with both of his drum-sticks, next pointing with one to the sails, and again setting the pair ajig on his tabor in clamorous acclaim.
Suddenly, however, catching sight of Vytal’s face, he desisted and hastened to the captain’s side. Vytal spoke in a low voice that none but Prat and Hugh Rouse might catch the tenor of his words. “An I mistake not, those ships are not our friends.” Roger and Hugh turned, in dismay, to look once more across the water.
Rouse, shading his eyes with a great hand, swore roundly beneath his breath.
“Body o’ me!” exclaimed Prat, who for once could say no more.
Vytal had spoken truly. For now that the ships came slowly within range of the watchers’ vision, the fact became obvious to one and another on the headland that these were not vessels of English build.
Gradually a desperate silence assumed sway over the colonists, while they advanced anxiously to the cliff’s edge. “They are enemies,” whispered one.
“Ay, ’fore Heaven, they are not of friendly countenance.”