The seaman shook his head. “Not for me, Sir Walter.”
“Why, man, will you let that great marvel lie hid till the hills crumble and bury it?”
“I will return—but not yet. When I have seen my son a man, I go back, but I go alone.”
“To the city of the gold kings?”
“Nay, to the Mount of the Angels, of which the priest told.”
There was silence for a minute. The light dawn wind sent a surge of little waves against the ship's side, so that it seemed as if the now flaming sky was making its song of morning. Raleigh blew out the flickering lamp, and the cabin was filled with a clear green dusk like palest emerald. The air from the sea flapped the pages of the book upon the table. He flung off his furred gown, and stretched his long arms to the ceiling.
“I think the fever has left me.... You said your tale was a commentary on my confessions. Wherefore, O Ulysses?”
“We had the chance of immortal joys, but we forsook them for lesser things. For that we were thoroughly punished and failed even in our baseness. You, too, Sir Walter, have glanced aside after gauds.”
“For certain I have,” and Raleigh laughed.
“Yet not for long. You have cherished most resolutely an elect purpose and in that you cannot fail.”