The sun arose. The waters of the river began to glow. The pavements of the desolate streets, the walls and the windows of the houses flushed with the red of dawn. Sea-gulls circled about the smokestack.
Christian sat alone with the dead men. He was huddled in an old coat which the captain had thrown around his shoulders. Steadily he gazed upon the faces of the dead. They were swollen and ugly.
XVI
North of Loch Lomond, Christian and Crammon wandered about shooting snipes and wild ducks. The land was rough and wild; always within their hearing thundered the sea; storm-harried masses of cloud raced across the sky.
“My father will be far from pleased,” said Christian. “I’ve spent two hundred and eighty thousand marks in the last ten months.”
“Your mother will persuade him to bear it,” Crammon answered. “Anyhow, you’re of age. You can use several times that much without any one hindering you.”
Christian threw back his head, and drew the salty air deep into his lungs. “I wonder what little Letitia is doing,” he said.
“I think of the child myself at times. She shouldn’t be left entirely to that old schemer,” Crammon replied.
Her kiss no longer burned on Christian’s lips, for other flames had touched them since. Like laughing putti in a painting, the lovely faces fluttered about him. Many of them, to be sure, were laughing now no more.
In a dark gown, emerging from between two white columns, Eva had taken leave of him. He seemed to see her still—the brunette pallor of her face, her inexpressibly slender hand, the most eloquent hand in the world.