“It is worse than that. St. Magil withheld the full truth from Ferdinando. There is a conspiracy afoot to land us on the coast of Portugal. Before morning some twenty men in Sir Walter’s pay will come upon the deck and overpower the mariners now here. I tell you, in order that you may summon as many soldiers hither from below, and save us.”
“I thank you,” he said, “but it cannot be.”
“Cannot be!”
“Nay, for we know not who is loyal. My men and I must meet the knaves alone.”
“Alone! God forgive me! It is the second time I place your life in peril.”
“On the contrary, the second time you make it worth the living. But how came this knowledge to your ears?”
She hesitated only for an instant, and then answered him, with an icy chill in her tone, “From my husband.”
“Your husband!” There was no tremor in the voice, but only a harsh finality, like the sound of a sword breaking. And for a moment, in which a lifetime seemed to drag itself ponderously by, there was utter silence.
“Take me to Master Dare,” said Vytal, at last, mechanically. “We shall do well to confer together concerning the matter.”
She looked up at him with wonder and surprise. “You would see him?” she asked, as though her ears had deceived her; then, with a new bitterness: “I fear you will gain but little by the interview. My husband is”—her voice sank lower, with a note of deep shame in it, the shame of a great pride wounded—“is not himself.” Then, turning, she led the way down to a large cabin in which the captain and the governor’s assistants were accustomed to hold conference pertaining to the colony and voyage. “He is there,” and she left Vytal at the cabin door.