ers and husbands
of the sea. On the tideless Mediterranean beauty still abided, as
nowhere else; would abide, when nowhere else--

Would it, though? Would it abide anywhere? A pang came into Campbell's
heart. Off Finisterre he had been passed by Robert Steel of Greenock's
_Falcon_, every sail drawing, skysails and moonrakers set, a pillar of
white cloud she seemed, like some majestic womanhood. And while boats
like the _Fiery Cross_ and the _Falcon_ tore along like greyhounds,
there were building tubby iron boats to go by steam. The train was
beating the post-chaise with its satiny horses, the train that went by
coal one dug from the ground. And even now de Lesseps and his men were
digging night and day that the steamboat might push the proud clipper
from the seas. Queer! Would there come a day when no topgallants drew?
And the square-rigged ships would be like old crones gathering fagots on
an October day. And what would become of the men who built and mastered
great racing ships? And would the sea itself permit vile iron and smudgy
coal to speck its immaculate bosom? Must the sea, too, be tamed like a
dancing bear for the men who are buying and selling? It seemed
impossible.

But the shrewd men who trafficked said it must be so. They were spending
their money on de Lesseps's fabulous scheme. And the shrewd men never
spent money without a return. They would conquer.

Poor sea of the Vikings! Poor sea of the Lion-heart and of the Sappho of
the songs! Poor sea of Admiral Columbus! Poor sea to whom Paul made
obeisance! Sea of Drake and sea of Nelson, and sea of Philip of Spain.
Poor sea whom the great doges of Venice wed with a ring of gold! Christ!
If they could only bottle you, they would sell you like Holland gin!

Section 6

He had figured his work. He had figured his field. It seemed to him that
this being done life should flow on evenly as a stream. But there were
gaps of unhappiness that all the subtle sailing of a ship, all the
commerce of the East, all the fighting of the gales could not fill.
Within him somewhere was a space, in his heart, in his head, somewhere,
a ring, a pit of emotion--how, where, why he could not express. It just
existed. And this was filled at times with concentration on his work, at
times with plans of the future and material memories of the past or
thoughts of ancient shipmates, of his Uncle Robin. It was like a house,
that space was, with a strange division of time, that correspon