nshine shed and garnered on far Southern slopes. Thus laden, he
returned with all speed, and blushed for pleasure at the old seaman's
commendations of his taste and judgment, as together they unpacked the
basket and laid out the contents on the grass by the roadside.

The Sea Rat, as soon as his hunger was somewhat assuaged, continued
the history of his latest voyage, conducting his simple hearer from
port to port of Spain, landing him at Lisbon, Oporto, and Bordeaux,
introducing him to the pleasant harbours of Cornwall and Devon, and so
up the Channel to that final quayside, where, landing after winds long
contrary, storm-driven and weather-beaten, he had caught the first
magical hints and heraldings of another Spring, and, fired by these,
had sped on a long tramp inland, hungry for the experiment of life on
some quiet farmstead, very far from the weary beating of any sea.

Spellbound and quivering with excitement, the Water Rat followed the
Adventurer league by league, over stormy bays, through crowded
roadsteads, across harbour bars on a racing tide, up winding rivers
that hid their busy little towns round a sudden turn; and left him
with a regretful sigh planted at his dull inland farm, about which he
desired to hear nothing.

By this time their meal was over, and the Seafarer, refreshed and
strengthened, his voice more vibrant, his eye lit with a brightness that
seemed caught from some far-away sea-beacon, filled his glass with the
red and glowing vintage of the South, and, leaning towards the Water Rat,
compelled his gaze and held him, body and soul, while he talked. Those
eyes were of the changing foam-streaked grey-green of leaping Northern
seas; in the glass shone a hot ruby that seemed the very heart of the
South, beating for him who had courage to respond to its pulsation. The
twin lights, the shifting grey and the steadfast red, mastered the Water
Rat and held him bound, fascinated, powerless. The quiet world outside
their rays receded far away and ceased to be. And the talk, the wonderful
talk flowed on--or was it speech entirely, or did it pass at times into
song--chanty of the sailors weighing the dripping anchor, sonorous hum of
the shrouds in a tearing North-Easter, ballad of the fisherman hauling
his nets at sundown against an apricot sky, chords of guitar and
mandoline from gondola or caique? Did it change into the cry of the wind,
plaintive at first, angrily shrill as it freshened, rising to a teari