I was crying like a child at the sight of it all, but none the less I was supremely happy.
When the procession reached the gangway Martin disappeared into the steamer, and then the bandsmen ranged themselves in front of it, and struck up another song:
"Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen,
Come back, aroon, to the land of your birth."
In another moment every voice in the crowd seemed to take up the refrain.
That brought Martin on to the captain's bridge, where he stood bareheaded, struggling to smile.
By this time the last of the ship's bells had rung, the funnels were belching, and the captain's voice was calling on the piermen to clear away.
At last the hawsers were thrown off and the steamer started, but, with Martin still standing bareheaded on the bridge, the people rushed to the end of the pier to see the last of him.
There they sang again, louder than ever, the girls' clear voices above all the rest, as the ship sailed out into the dark sea.
"Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen,
Come back, aroon, to the land of your birth."
As well as I could, for the mist in my eyes was blinding me, I watched the steamer until she slid behind the headland of the bay, round, the revolving light that stands on the point of it—stretching my neck through the window of the car, while the fresh wind from the sea smote my hot face and the salt air licked my parched lips. And then I fell back in my seat and cried for sheer joy of the love that was shown to Martin.