"A pagan sentiment, ma'am, from a pagan poet . . . If I were Jove, that stag should sleep to-night under the waves on a coral bed. He deserves it."
"Or, better still, swim out to Holmness and reign his last days there, a solitary king."
The Parson shook his head as he gazed.
"They would be few and hungry ones, ma'am, on an island more barren than Ithaca; no shady coverts, no young ash shoots to nibble, no turnip fields to break into and spoil . . . Jove's is the better boon, by your leave."
"And, by Jove, he has it! . . . Use your eyes, please; yours are better than mine. For my part, I've lost him."
They sat erect in their saddles, straining their gaze over the sea.
"It's hard to say—looking straight here against the sun, and with all this fog drifting about—"
But here a cry, breaking almost simultaneously from a score of riders, drew his attention to the boat.
"Yes, the boat—they have ceased pulling. He must have sunk!"
"God rest his bones—if a Christian may say it."