“Then we are exiles once again.”
The soldier inclined his head. “Yes, exiles. England will never know of our existence; history will account us futile in all our endeavors, and inexplicably lost.” His voice sank lower. “Five Englishmen remain alive besides myself.”
A cry escaped her lips. “’Tis impossible!”
“Nay, ’tis true.”
“But why, then, do the Spaniards beat a retreat?”
“Because Manteo’s force, though fatally delayed by Hugh’s encounter with St. Magil, arrived in time to surprise them, and because Frazer kept his guard apart from the main attack.”
She rested her hands on his arms and came very close to him. The glare of the burning town illuminated his face, showing an expression that even she had never pictured. The stern tensity was relieved, the despotic tyranny of his mouth, the imperial crown of deep-cut lines on his brow, the portentous fire of his eyes—all had been subdued beneath the touch of love. Drawing her closer, he kissed her forehead reverently.
The darkness of night had lost its meaning. The merciless fire was seen no more save as they found it reflected in each other’s eyes.
They were one.
Yet it was all so essentially natural that they experienced no surprise nor wonder in the realization of their unity. It seemed but the end of a primordial beginning, the reversion to their souls of a pre-natal heritage, which but for a season had been withheld that by sorrow and suffering its perfection might be assured.