—Longfellow.
He was an old man with that indefinable courtliness of bearing that is of a past generation; tall and spare he was, his white head bowed a little by weight of years, but almost with my first glance I seemed to recognise him instinctively for that "worthy Master Builder of goodly vessels staunch and strong!" So the Master Builder I will call him.
He stood beside me at the window with one in the uniform of a naval captain, and we looked, all three of us, at that which few might behold unmoved.
"She's a beauty!" said the Captain. "She's all speed and grace from cutwater to sternpost."
"I've been building ships for sixty-odd years and we never launched a better!" said the Master Builder.
As for me I was dumb.
She lay within a stone's-throw, a mighty vessel, huge of beam and length, her superstructure towering proudly aloft, her massive armoured sides sweeping up in noble curves, a Super-Dreadnought complete from trucks to keelson. Yacht-like she sat the water all buoyant grace from lofty prow to tapering counter, and to me there was something sublime in the grim and latent power, the strength and beauty of her.
"But she's not so very—big, is she?" enquired a voice behind me.
The Captain stared; the Master Builder smiled: