“To me my king’s much honour,
To me my people’s love——”
The folding-doors slid open, admitting Mrs. Heron and Babs. Baldwin raised a quick hand of warning:
“Hush. Don’t make a noise. Stuart’s reciting.”
“Damn it, Baldwin!” roared his nephew; “do you take this for a board school prize-giving?”
Softly Mrs. Heron withdrew, gliding the doors behind her, with infinite precautions not to jar them in the contact.
Stuart went on; bent slightly forward from his careless seat on the edge of the billiard-table; hands clasped between his knees; the green-shaded quadrangle of strong lights just above, biting out his features with uncompromising clarity. His tones were low and tight with the infinity of pain that underlay the next verses: Valdez recalling his old adventure days, when unknown, unfettered, he sailed in happy comradeship on the South Seas:
“I dreamt to wait my pleasure
Unchanged my Spring would bide;
Wherefore, to wait my pleasure,
I put my Spring aside.
Till first in face of fortune,
And last in mazed disdain,
I made Diego Valdez
High Admiral of Spain.”
And a faint mockery twitched the young man’s lips, as if drawing some secret analogy with the curse of good fortune following the Spaniard’s every movement.
“Then walked no wind ’neath Heaven
Nor surge that did not aid——”