Mary was seated in the boat, he lounging around it; now leaning against the gunwale, now stalking idly to and fro in the shining sand, rejoicing in his youth. They talked of the passing sea-gulls, the twittering bluebirds, the rippling waves, the rosy clouds, the generous sunlight,—of everything, of nothing, it mattered not; for love hath power to transfigure the plainest things.
Presently the Don said, standing with fingers interlaced behind his back, and looking far away down the River, “Do you know, it would be hard for me to live at a spot remote from salt water? All the great thoughts that have moved the world have arisen within sound of the sea-waves. She is the mother of civilization. It is the land which separates the peoples of the earth, not the water. It thrills me to think that, as I stand here, this river which splashes against my foot is part of that ocean which washes the shores of England, of France, of Italy, of Greece, of Palestine.”
Palestine! Strange word on the lips of a man who never went to church.
“Then, again,” continued he, with a smile, “I love the sea because it reminds me—I don’t mind telling you, since I have let you into my little secret—because it reminds me of Homer, and the epithets he has applied to it.”
“Ah, that reminds me of something! Have you forgotten your promise to talk to me about Homer? Have you that little copy of the Iliad in your pocket now?”
“Of course,” said he, tapping his vest.
“Will you not let me have it in my hand now?”
He shook his head, smiling. “No; but have you not the right to command me now? Speak, and I obey!”
“Ah! Then I command you, on your allegiance, to deliver that book into my hands.”
He hesitated for a moment, and his hand shook a little when he placed the book in hers. She took the left lid between finger and thumb; but his look of ill-suppressed agitation made her hesitate, and her hand began to tremble now, she knew not why.