And dark night day.”
—Marlowe, in Edward the Second.
Morning broke fair, and seemingly the wind, which had freshened, was defending its two charges by driving the clouds from a threatening course. Throughout the day Vytal saw no more of Eleanor Dare. In the evening he returned to the Admiral with a heavy heart and thoughts intent on the elucidation of the mystery, until, on passing a window of the room of state, he saw beneath a hanging lamp of Italian workmanship a face that so startled him as to command his whole interest and attention. It was the face of Sir Walter St. Magil. Vytal looked again, to prove his first glance correct, and then stood for a moment in doubt before entering. But the next words made him, against his will, a listener by the command of duty. Stepping to a vantage-point in adequate darkness, from which he could survey the whole cabin and hear the sentences of his late antagonist, he waited; for an oath from Ferdinando, followed quickly by a cautioning gesture from St. Magil, betrayed the covert importance of their conversation.
“It is against the first duty of a sailing-master,” declared Simon, frowning and toying nervously with the upturned corners of a chart, or map, that lay before him on the table; “I mislike the suggestion strongly.” At this St. Magil’s face, scarred upon the left cheek, from the dagger which Vytal had flung at him, and blighted yet more evilly by the indrawn eye, grew scornful and supercilious.
“Oh, an you are so faint-hearted,” he returned, “we must bide our time. ’Twill matter little in the end to us, but to you, now,” and he leaned forward across the table impressively, “it will matter more. ’Twere well, though, to discuss the thing in Spanish; even the arras hath ears.”
“Matter to me, Sir Walter—how so?” queried the master, conforming with the other’s suggestion regarding their speech. But Vytal fortunately understood the foreign tongue, thanks to many a campaign against the Spaniards.
St. Magil hesitated and looked away with a calculating air, then, smiling, replied lightly, “Well, say to the tune of a thousand crowns.”
Ferdinando’s small eyes glistened like a rat’s. “On your word, Sir Walter?”
“On my word, Simon, a thousand crowns if the boat arrives not in Virginia.” There was emphasis on the condition.
“’Tis done, then.”