A minute more and I stood upon the
shore of the mighty stream, between the two brightnesses of flood
and heavens. There was a silver crescent in the sky with one white
star above it, and fair in sight, down the James, with lights
springing up through the twilight, was the town, - the English town
that we had built and named for our King, and had held in the teeth
of Spain, in the teeth of the wilderness and its terrors. It was not a
mile away; a little longer, - a little longer and I could rest, with my
tidings told.
The dusk had quite fallen when I reached the neck of land. The hut
to which I had been enticed that night stood dark and ghastly, with
its door swinging in the wind. I ran past it and across the neck,
and, arriving at the palisade, beat upon the gate with my hands,
and called to the warder to open. When I had told him my name
and tidings, he did so, with shaking knees and starting eyes.
Cautioning him to raise no alarm in the town, I hurried by him into
the street, and down it toward the house that was set aside for the
Governor of Virginia. I should find there now, not Yeardley, but
Sir Francis Wyatt.
The torches were lighted, and the folk were indoors, for the night
was cold. One or two figures that I met or passed would have
accosted me, not knowing who I was, but I brushed by them, and
hastened on.
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