“Yes—or the legend,” answered Miles. “And it is drawing on to Christmas time.”
A short silence followed, before she asked:
“What legend?”
“Oh—why, you know it.” He slowly recalled the lines, prompted by the pale mystery of stars overhead, the swerving profundity of the tide beneath, but more than all by the whispering, muffled figure on the thwart, obscure as a shape of sorcery.
“‘Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long.
And then—’”
The dripping of the oars marked the pauses, crisply and rhythmically.