“Less hopefully in one way than another, Mistress Dare.”
At this her manner, curiously changing, became graver, the assumed archness and petulance for the moment leaving her. “You speak of cruelty,” she said, in a very low voice, again turning to gaze down at the sea, “and of hope. Sometimes, Captain Vytal, they are synonymous;” and then, before he could make rejoinder, she added, quickly, “I pray you tell me of the escape?”
“’Twas through a window overlooking the Thames,” he answered, in bewilderment. “And I swam ashore.”
“Ah, I see. I thought perhaps you had followed us through the porter’s lodge.”
“No; the way was blocked.”
“Tell me,” she asked, “was it your plan, our reaching safety as we did, or Master Marlowe’s?”
“Neither his nor mine.”
“Neither! Whose, then?”
“At least, in a way, neither. You see, I remembered the story of the porter’s lodge. In 1554 Wyatt gained that building by mounting to the leads of an adjoining house, and thus made his way onto the bridge. Hence I knew there must be passageway to the Bankside.”
“And you remembered even while your sword demanded so much attention?”