To thoughts bewildered, how so small a stage
Can thus contain so great a tragedy.
The Eunice left Southampton on an unpleasantly wet day, and standing on the deck, under a dull gray sky, the three adventurers felt quite dispirited as they watched the receding shores of England veil themselves in chilly mists. Going down the Channel they had moderately fair weather, but no sunlight, and Caliphronas, who was a wretchedly bad sailor, in spite of his Levantine cruisings, retreated to his cabin in a very miserable frame of mind. Both Crispin and Maurice, however, were in good health and spirits, mostly remaining on deck to watch the gray sea heaving dully under the gray sky. In the Bay of Biscay bad weather prevailed as a matter of course, and the yacht tossed about a good deal in the choppy waters. Not until they passed the Straits did they have fine weather, for the first burst of sunlight showed them the giant rock of Gibraltar frowning on the left as they steamed rapidly into the blue waters of the Mediterranean.
Had Maurice so desired, Crispin was quite willing to put in for a day, but the young man was anxious to proceed to Melnos, and the yacht soon left the picturesque sentinel of the Mediterranean behind. The weather now became warm and bright, bringing Caliphronas out of his cabin again, like a brilliant butterfly, to bask in the sunshine. The arid island of Malta came in sight, and they saw its precipitous shores rising sternly from the tideless waters. For a few hours they cast anchor in the Grand Harbor, and went on shore to explore Valetta, with its steep streets, quaint houses, and mongrel population. An afternoon spent in leisurely strolling along the Strada Reale, and looking at the bizarre mixture of Turks, Jews, Arabs, Italians, and red-coated English soldiers, proved an agreeable change after their nine days’ run from Southampton, and they re-embarked in much better spirits than when they left England. Now they were in tropical heat, with a cloudless sky above, and the brave little yacht steamed merrily across the glittering waters, leaving a trail of white foam behind her. Nearer and nearer they drew to the enchanted shores of Greece, and to glowing days succeeded warm nights lighted by mellow constellations and delicately silver moons.
It was when they were in Adria, the ancient name of the sea between Sicily and Greece, that Crispin told Maurice the story of his life. Dinner was long since over, and the three gentlemen lounged on deck smoking the pipes of peace—that is, Crispin and Maurice smoked and lounged, for Caliphronas did neither the one thing nor the other, but paced restlessly about the deck, looking up into the darkly blue sky, and singing snatches of Greek songs.
“Do you see Taygetus, Mr. Maurice?” he said, pointing to the lofty snow-crowned range of mountains in the distance. “This is your first glimpse of Greece, is it not? Yes, of course it is. I am sorry you do not find our shores bathed in sunlight to greet you; still yonder snowy mountain, this calm sea, that serene sky, is beautiful, is it not?”
“Very beautiful.”
Whereat Caliphronas, leaning over the taffrail and looking dreamily at the shores of his native land, broke out into song.
“I would I were hunting on rocky Taygetus,
Which kisses the starry sky with snows of chastity,