k was the thick mass of flying fowl, that a flight of swans shone
snowy against the black cloud of their wings. At the view of them the
Wanderer caught his bow eagerly into his hand and set an arrow on the
string, and, taking a careful aim at the white wedge of birds, he shot a
wild swan through the breast as it swept high over the mast. Then,
with all the speed of its rush, the wild white swan flashed down like
lightning into the sea behind the ship. The Wanderer watched its fall,
when, lo! the water where the dead swan fell splashed up as red as blood
and all afoam! The long silver wings and snowy plumage floated on the
surface flecked with blood-red stains, and the Wanderer marvelled as he
bent over the bulwarks and gazed steadily upon the sea. Then he saw that
the wide sea round the ship was covered, as far as the eye could reach,
as it were with a blood-red scum. Hither and thither the red stain was
tossed like foam, yet beneath, where the deep wave divided, the Wanderer
saw that the streams of the sea were grey and green below the crimson
dye. As he watched he saw, too, that the red froth was drifted always
onward from the South and from the mouth of the River of Egypt, for
behind the wake of the ship it was most red of all, though he had not
marked it when the battle raged. But in front the colour grew thin, as
if the stain that the river washed down was all but spent. In his heart
the Wanderer thought, as any man must have deemed, that on the banks of
the River of Egypt there had been some battle of great nations, and
that the War God had raged furiously, wherefore the holy river as it ran
forth stained all the sacred sea. Where war was, there was his home, no
other home had he now, and all the more eagerly he steered right on to
see what the Gods would send him. The flight of birds was over and past;
it was two hours after noon, the light was high in the heaven, when,
as he gazed, another shadow fell on him, for the sun in mid-heaven grew
small, and red as blood. Slowly a mist rose up over it from the South,
a mist that was thin but as black as night. Beyond, to the southward,
there was a bank of cloud like a mountain wall, steep, and polished,
and black, tipped along the ragged crest with fire, and opening ever
and again with flashes of intolerable splendour, while the bases were
scrawled over with lightning like a written scroll. Never had the
Wanderer in all his voyaging on the sea and on the great River Oceanu