"Veracruz, yes—the port ahead. And how was she when you saw her last?"
"A lonesome woman—more lonesome and weary than a good woman should be at her age. Her eyes are still violet and her cheeks like ivory, but the color doesn't come and go in them now."
"I had to leave home to learn," said Killorin, "that the bright color coming and going like a flood means the blood running high in the heart. Men should have a care for such. Such natures feel terribly—either joy or sorrow."
It had been night. In a moment the red sun rose up from the oily sea, and it was day. There was a moment of haze and vapor, and then emerged a city ahead—a pink-and-white city, with here and there a touch of cream and blue.
"Beautiful!" murmured Carlin.
"They're all beautiful," said Killorin, "in the dawn."
A faint breeze was stealing over the Gulf. Through the black sea little crests of white were breaking—pure white they were, and a whiff of pure air was coming from them. The sleepers around the deck began to stir, to roll over, to sit up, and, with thankful sighs, to inhale the fresh, sweet air.
"The breath o' dawn!" murmured Killorin—"like a breath o' heaven after the hot tropic night.... As you say, that port ahead is beautiful. But when that port is astern and some other one ahead! That will be the sight, man—New York harbor after all these years! The breath and the color o' dawn then—'twill be like a bride's blush and her whisper stealing over the waters o' New York Bay."