CHAPTER IV.
THE LAND OF PROMISE.
The throb of the propeller has almost ceased; faint, too, is the vibration of the slowed-down engines. The Persian is gliding with well-nigh imperceptible motion through the smooth waters of Table Bay.
It is a perfect morning, cloudless in its dazzling splendour. In front, the huge Table Mountain rears its massive wall, dwarfing the mud-town lying at its base and the bristling masts of shipping, its great line mirrored in the sheeny surface. Away in the distance, the purple cones of the Hottentots Holland mountains loom thirstily through a glimmer of summer haze. A fair scene indeed after three weeks of endless sea and sky.
"And what are your first impressions of my native land?"
Laurence turned.
"I was thinking less of the said land than of myself," he answered. "I was thinking what potentialities would lie between my first impressions of it and my last."
Just a suspicion of gravity came over Lilith Ormskirk's face at the remark.
"And are you glad the voyage is at an end, now that it is?" she went on.
"You know I am not. It was such a rest."