On hearing Vytal enter, the poet awoke slowly; but, seeing the face behind his friend, as it came within the candle-light, he rose from his chair with an exclamation of surprise.
“The sole survivor,” announced Vytal, “of our fifteen men.”
“What!”
“But a plaything,” added Ralph, with a deprecatory wave of his hand. “A mere babery for naked red-boys.”
Marlowe took up the candle and held it nearer the speaker’s face. Then, with less surprise and more commiseration, “Forgive me,” he said, “for my unmannerly welcome, but for the moment your features seemed familiar to me, as though I had seen them in a dream.”
The new-comer returned his gaze with a dazed expression. “I am a dream.”
The poet glanced at Vytal meaningly. “He needs rest; let him sleep on my bed. I will make a couch of grasses for myself.”
When finally they heard the regular breathing of their guest, who lay comfortably on Marlowe’s bed, Vytal told of the meeting on the shore and of Ralph Contempt’s broken narrative.
“Poor devil!” mused the poet. “He whose bones we found scattered here was far more fortunate.”
“I thought I knew this man’s face,” said Vytal. “’Tis strange that you, too, should have imagined a recognition.”