“Yes,” observed Marlowe, thoughtfully, “in St. Magil’s words, as you o’erheard them, I seem to hear the whisper of a wide conspiracy in which even the Spaniards of St. Augustine will play their part. But tell me, would not decisive action here and now defeat them more surely than cautious measures?”
“I think not,” replied the soldier, turning in the direction of approaching footsteps. “Who comes?”
“’Tis I, captain, a wet dog, at your service.”
“Get you below, Roger, for warmth, and a change of garments.”
“’Tis impossible, sir; such as I find adequate attire most difficult to borrow. Hast never seen me in a moderate doublet? The sight, they say, is worthy of a stage play. Moreover, the only warmth of interest now lies in the oven of Sheol, wherein, ’tis my ardent hope, Master Pilot will soon be roasting by your command.”
Vytal smiled. “Justice demands patience,” he said. “Do you, then, seek Hugh, bidding him go among the mariners with eyes and ears awake. And likewise make investigation for yourself. Find an you can the limits of the plot, map out its course, survey the field. Bring proofs. ’Tis better so.”
“Justice!” muttered Roger to himself, starting away—“’tis always justice!” Joining Rouse, he thrust his hand through the big soldier’s arm. “A stoup of liquor, Hugh, will loose my tongue, and fit it well for questions. ’Tis to be all questions now, and never an answer from our lips. Big lout, think’st thou it is in thee to hint a query and induce reply with never a trace of eagerness? Nay, but follow me, King Lud’s Lord Chancellor—Heaven preserve his forsaken Majesty—ay, sirrah, follow me, and praise good fortune for the chance. Be mute. Keep tongue between teeth, and thy great paw well within a league of sword-hilt.” And so the garrulous Prat ran on, after his usual important manner, until they had gained the forecastle.
In the mean time Vytal and Marlowe, near the main-mast, were striving, by discussion and induction, to obtain a more comprehensive grasp of the situation. The soldier had long suspected St. Magil of treasonable intrigues, the nature of which, however, was undiscoverable. In the Low Country camps for the last three years there had been rumors of treachery, with which Sir Walter’s name had been vaguely associated. Some had openly pronounced him a spy in the pay of Philip of Spain, while others had as firmly declared him loyal to Henry and Elizabeth.
“We are his match at least in sword-play,” observed Marlowe, finally. “’Twas proved conclusively upon the bridge.”
“We are his match,” returned Vytal, with a quiet confidence, “in all things.”