Gray sails that fill with the winds of the morning, Out upon the Channel or the bleak North sea, Neither cross nor fleur-de-lis goes to your adorning,-- Arctic frost and southern gale your tirewomen shall be. Yet when you come home again--home again--home again, Gray sails turn to silver when the keel runs free. Gray sails of Plymouth, 'ware the wild Orcades, Gray sails of Lisbon, 'ware the guns of Dieppe. Cross-bows of Genoa, 'ware the wharves of Gades,-- You that sail the Spanish Seas may neither trust nor sleep. Yet when you come home again--home again--home again, You shall make the covenant for Kings to keep! Gray sails are crowding where the sea-fog sleeping Masks the faces of the folk that throng and traffic there. When the winds are free again and the cod are leaping, All the tongues of Pentecost wake the laughing air. And when they come home again--home again--home again, They shall bring their freedom for the world to share! VII LITTLE VENICE "Translators," observed Amerigo Vespucci, "are frequently traitors. Now who is to be surety that yonder interpreter does not change your words in repeating them?" Alonso de Ojeda touched the hilt of his poniard. "This," he said. "Toledo steel speaks all languages." The Florentine's black eyebrows lifted a little, but he did not pursue the subject. Ojeda was not the sort of man likely to be convinced of anything he did not believe already, and Vespucci was having too good a time to waste it in argument.