I looked at him curiously and wondered how he really felt behind that black face of his.
“Morris,” I said again after a moment, “how do you feel about death, anyway?”
He looked at me and then he looked at the sea, and smiled faintly as he answered:
“Well, sir, the water looks cold to me.”
At that moment there was a break in the clouds. Oh, such a little break! Out of it fell a mere handful of sunlight, as rays fall into a darkened room when the blinds are thrown open. The clear, transcendent shafts fell across the waters like a message from heaven, and suddenly there was a shout on the bridge, echoed by every member of the crew that was on deck.
From the whiteness of the hillside, just on our beam, there stood out a golden spot, that seemed no larger than a five dollar gold piece. For a moment it flashed like fire against the white. Then as quickly as it had come it dissolved from view.
It was the dome on the Greek church in Batuum.
The sun for just that tiny space had turned its brazen cupola to liquid light that marked for us the haven of our seeking.
Thirty minutes later we anchored behind the breakwater, and a mountain slid from off our souls.