With only the delay of a second in which to unsheath his sword, Marlowe obeyed; and the dull murmur of voices grew louder as it rose unimpeded to the two above. But no one appeared in the hatchway.
“They lie in wait to entrap us,” opined the poet, and then, with a hand on Vytal’s arm: “Stay, I pray you! It means certain death!” For the soldier had stepped forward as though to descend.
Vytal smiled. “That night on the bridge you counted not the cost. Your impetuosity, methought, was gallant as could be. I go alone, then.”
“Nay, nay, I stand beside you. Know you not that Kyt Marlowe is two men—a dreaming idler and a firebrand as well? Cast the firebrand before you, an you will. ’Twill burn a path for you, I warrant,” and with that the poet, now all impulse, leaped toward the hatchway, brandishing his sword. But this time Vytal’s was the restraining hand.
“No; I but tried you. We are none of us to be caught in a stupid snare, if snare it be.” And bending over the hold, to Marlowe’s astonishment, he called for Roger Prat. Then, to the poet’s still greater amazement, Roger’s head appeared in the opening, and a fat finger beckoned Vytal still closer to the hatch.
“All’s well, but show no mistrust of them;” and then aloud, that the men below might hear him, “Ay, Captain Vytal, ’tis Roger and many others at your service, eager for the fray;” whereat, looking back down the ladder, Prat called to the men to follow him. In a moment a motley company, of perhaps twenty, were standing on the deck, ranged in a group behind their spokesman. There were soldiers here, armed with pikes and bearing for defence leathern targets on their arms. There were mariners, too, with dirks and pistols.
“We are ready, you see,” observed Roger, with a covert wink. “Ready and eager to defend the ship.”
“Brave men all,” said Vytal, masking his contempt with a look of gratitude. “I thank you. But it is too late. The rank treason is already thwarted, the pilot a captive, to whom justice shall be meted out in no small measure. You have lost the chance to fight, but your desire, believe me, shall not soon be forgotten.”
There was a double meaning in the last words that caused many an eye to seek the deck confusedly. “’Twill be well,” resumed Vytal, with a look at Prat, “to leave your arms here in case of another fell attempt to surprise us. Perchance you might not hear the alarm, and so your weapons, were they with you, would be lost to us. Here we can give them to the hands of those who hasten first to the defence. I bid you good-night.”
One by one the men, not without hesitation, laid down their arms. It was the only chance they had to prove their good faith, and Roger Prat, as though to vindicate his own position, unbuckled his great scabbard with much ado and laid it down beside the rest. Then the men turned upon their heels and dispersed sheepishly, Roger, to maintain his rôle, going with them to the forecastle.