Vytal scrutinized the impassive face for the first time with a deep interest. He had seen the Indian’s tall figure, now and again, standing silently aloof in the bow, his dark eyes always gazing off to the westward. But until now he had not seen those eyes alert and troubled, the supple form prescient with meaning.
“What brings you this suspicion, Manteo?”
“I know it as birds know that winter comes, as vultures that a warrior is dead.”
There was a marked similarity in the bearing of the two men. They were both tall, dignified, and slow to speak, both evidently perceptive, strong, and masterful, both almost childlike in their direct simplicity. Perhaps each realized the likeness, for into the eyes of both there came a look of understanding that gave promise of a bond between them stronger than the stout cables the one had been examining, stronger even than the other’s ties of blood.
“My brother,” said Manteo, at length, “you, too, know the truth, but in a different way. I came to thy country as Master Barlow’s interpreter, many moons ago. I return to my people, but I have learned among thine to interpret more than words. Thus, and by my own heart, I know that we are left behind. I have spoken.”
“You have spoken no lie.”
“I am Manteo, and lie not.”
“My brother,” rejoined Vytal, “listen.” And he told the chief the tale succinctly, omitting only the complicity of Ananias Dare. “An you learn more,” he said, in conclusion, “you will tell me, I trust, and none other.”
“Only to thee have I spoken, or shall speak. For thou art a chief, as I am, among men.”
There remains no more to be told concerning life on the fly-boat. As to the voyage of the Admiral, it is recorded on accessible pages of history. An excerpt from these may not be inadmissible as a record of bare fact. In the journal of John White, the colony’s governor, we find the following true description of the voyage: