beam. It was like a warm hearth-fire to come down
there after a strenuous time on deck while the sou'wester crashed on the
Welsh coast. Or in the roll of the Bay of Biscay, after a space watching
the swinging fields of stars, to come down there was to drop into a
welcoming circle of friends, to throw one's self down and pick up a
book, the Laureate's "In Memoriam" or Mr. Thackeray's latest--and to
glance from the pages of "Henry Esmond" to Prince Charlie's dagger lying
peacefully on the desk.... How near! how near!... And up forward the
lookout paced, or leaned over the bows, humming in Gaidhlig:

_'S tric me sealtuinn do'n chnoc is airde D'fheac a faic mi fear a bhata
An dtig tu andiu no'n dtig tu 'maireach? Is mur dtig tu eader gur truagh
mar ta mi!_

Will you come to-day or will you come to-morrow?
If you never come how piteous for me!
_Fhir a' bhata, na horo eile!_
_Hi horo, fhir a bhata--_

All the nostalgia of the Scottish isles was in the minors of that
song.... And it was like a lullaby.... And the wind hummed through the
rigging.... And underneath was the flow and throb of the immense
circulation of the sea.... And overhead the helmsman rang the ship's
bell. _Tung-tung, tung-tung, tung-tung, tung._ And all was well on board
the _Ulster Lady_. And she was his only sweetheart and delight ... until
he met _La Mielleuse_ on the road to Aix....

Section 3

The babble of the Greek merchants in the Cafe Turc at last began to bore
him, and hiring a horse and sort of gig he decided to drive to Aix. He
had always wished to see the old Provencal capital, but somehow the
opportunity had always passed by, or something.... But on this bright
September afternoon it seemed such a pity to go back on board ship....
He examined the old white horse with interest.

"Are you sure he'll take me there? You see his--" Shane wanted to say
suspensory ligaments, but his French didn't quite go that far--"his
legs--"

"But, Monsieur, he has won several races--"

"Well, in that event"--Shane grinned, "K-k-k-k!"

The white horse trotted steadily out the Prado, the Rue de Rome, trotted
out in the country, passed Bains de la Mediterranee. A northerdly breeze
was out rippling the gulf and giving promise of autumn, and the heavy
heat of the Midi had disappeared for the instant. Soon they would be
plucking the grapes of Provence. The olive-trees were black on the white
road. The white horse trotted on....

There were pea