—Marlowe, in Edward the Second.
Eleanor Dare stood alone near the bulwark of the fly-boat, her thoughts shapeless, until at last a dark object, also without form, rose and fell on the water within range of her unseeing vision. Slowly her consciousness grew more acute, and the thing became real to her. Slowly it took shape and became a boat, a ship’s cock-boat, contending with all its little bravery against the waves. She heard, with an increasing heed to them, the shouts of men from the deck of the Admiral, and noticed for the first time that the governor’s ship, having stood back upon her course, was now abreast of the fly-boat. But soon her eyes, with a renewed attention to the realities of her surroundings, saw the Admiral stand away again to the westward. She perceived with surprise that, considering the gale, the larger vessel carried an unwarrantable spread of canvas; and realized, not without alarm, that the fly-boat, if thus outsailed for many hours, must soon be left astern far beyond the regulation distance. And as to the small boat: was its present plight merely the unfortunate result of an attempt to bring some message from one ship to the other, or was it the outcome of a fell design on the part of Ferdinando? This last suspicion in Eleanor’s mind was not without foundation, for she had already entertained misgivings.
Suddenly a yet graver fear came to her. For the fly-boat’s pilot, who at first had luffed his vessel up into the wind, imitating the example of the Admiral’s master, now sent her plunging ahead again, paying no heed to the rowers, who struggled vainly in the fly-boat’s wake. Realizing this, Eleanor, at last fully aware of the small boat’s predicament, and alive to the demands of the moment, hurried aft to remonstrate with the helmsman. She was not certain that the pilot’s intentions were treacherous, nor that the cock-boat had been seen. Furthermore, being ignorant of the rowers’ identities, she supposed them to be but mariners of the Admiral’s crew. But they were men elevated for the moment to a position of supreme importance by mortal danger, the leveller of all degrees.
With good policy, on her way aft, Eleanor gave the alarm to all she passed, and thus brought many with her to the pilot. The latter, a burly seaman, whose unkempt red hair and beard swathed his pock-marked face like a flaming rag, showed much astonishment at seeing a number of his passengers, led by a woman, excitedly running toward him, as fast as might be, considering the lurch and reel of the clumsy ship.
“There is a small boat astern of us,” said Eleanor, arriving first at the helm. “Ferdinando must have forgotten her. There hath been some mistake.”
The pilot turned, with a grunt of incredulity, and glanced off in the direction of her outstretched hand. “I see naught,” he returned, gruffly. “’Tis an illusion of the sight.”
But at that instant a voice came after them over the water from the darkness far astern. They heard but a feeble note, an inarticulate sound, yet the voice of Hugh Rouse, stentorian and resonant, had flung out the incoherent cry from his great lungs in full power, to beat its way against the wind. With constantly failing strength it overtook the ship and died a mere whisper on eager ears. But there could be no mistake; a score of men had heard. For an instant the pilot hesitated and glanced at the little company furtively under his fiery beetle-brows. Then, with a hoarse command to his crew, he shoved the helm hard down, and once more turned the fly-boat into a stupid, tentative thing, hanging in the wind, drowsily expectant and poised in awkward fashion, like a fat woman on tiptoe looking for her child.
And the child went to her slowly with faltering steps. Tumbling over the ridges of water and picking herself up again, nothing daunted, the cock-boat came finally into view. In a few minutes the rowers were on the ship’s deck. Vytal, whose sinews were of steel, and Hugh Rouse, a great rock of hardihood, showed small fatigue, but Roger Prat, who had just recovered consciousness, leaned heavily against the bulwark, striving to force a jest through chattering teeth, while the water still dripped from his clothes.
Marlowe stood apart, seemingly all-forgetful of his exertion, his dark eyes intent on the face of Eleanor Dare.
Many torches, now, in the hands of inquisitive voyagers, were throwing lurid streaks of flame across the gloom. Their light fell full upon Eleanor, revealing to the poet a realization of his dream. In all the rich colors of his limitless fancy he had pictured her often to himself since the night of their flight from London Bridge. The picture now was corporate, and Fancy inadequate before the Real. The many proffers of assistance, the come and go of hasty figures, the general commotion and curiosity were lost to Marlowe’s heed.