On the second night, as we were flying through the half-dusk—the moon shone sometimes—we heard a deep rushing before us just a little louder than the sea’s rushing. In a moment there grew up in the darkness a shore of waving trees—we were among rushes—the ship high on the ground. We were splashing ashore in the dark and the swishing wind, and we sat and listened under the tossing, complaining trees till daylight.
Two days’ travelling under darkly-dripping branches brought us to a hall. It looked familiar—it was our own hall!
We had come home!
How quickly wonders fade under joy, though sorrow preserves them long. By that evening we had come to think of it as very natural.
Three days we passed in eating and drinking, and on the evening of the third one we sat pale from our drinking along the board. Outside the ship lay, having been brought round by those sent.
My lord sat on a low stool by the corner of the fire. The talking grew slack and we yawned, the edge of our home-coming having been ground down by welcoming. Some of us rose to go to our sleep.
Then my lord stirred, uneasily, for a moment, got up, walked slowly to the end of the long room, and sat down. We glanced around at the sound of his tread and then the little talking ceased, for we saw that he meant to speak. After a moment he spoke.
“I will go there to-morrow, and I would know what men would accompany me.” His lips were tight closed and he was pale across the forehead.
No one spoke.
“Will no one go?” he asked softly.