Be merry, friends!”
But the truest singer of them all lay in the bow, shrouded by the daybreak mist, and silent in the depths of slumber.
For the sun had not yet risen.
Thus Christopher Marlowe—an impression, a song, a vivid but fleeting picture—passed from the life of a new-world people.
CHAPTER XXIII
“But who comes here?
How now?”
—Marlowe, in The Jew of Malta.