Coldly white will I lie on thy cold white breast.
But thro’ the door of death must I pass to gain such blisses.”
“’Tis like the lyrics of Callicles in Arnold’s poem,” said Crispin, taking off his cap; “stray fragments of song scattered by the winds.”
“Or like the songs in ‘Pippa Passes,’” suggested Maurice speculatively; “but I am afraid the singing of Caliphronas will not do so much good as Pippa’s.”
A long sigh floated past them on the still waters, like the melancholy cry of a bird, and died away sadly in the distance.
“Calypso sighing for Ulysses,” observed Crispin, without altering his position; “though I dare say it is only the wind moaning through the ropes.”
“Let us think it is the voice calling, Pan is dead!”
“We are classical to-night. Caliphronas has inoculated us with his antique dreams. Well, when one is in fairyland, one must dream romances.”
“Suppose you tell me your romance,” said Maurice abruptly.
“Of my past life? Yes; I will do so; but you must promise to keep it secret.”