The voice was rich and mellow. He must have known Teutonic beginnings, or enough association for the mannerisms to get into his blood. Stackhouse was not even without that softness of sentiment, though he was tender only for men. Except for a spellable word here and there, his accent was inimitable. He talked of little other than death, and with indescribable care--as if he had been much with men of another language or with men of slow understanding.... It may have been the drink, or the sunset over distant land; the Spanish Main ahead, or the dryness and pentness of the city-heart and its achievement of long-dreamed desire in a snug, sweet ship under the easy strain of sails with wind in them; in any event Bellair was drawn with exquisite passion--drawn southward as the _Jade_ was drawn in the soft, irresistible strength of nature. He knew that this would pass, that he could not continue to sense this _rapport_ with the sea-board, but he loved it now, breathed deep, and saw Stackhouse as he was never to be seen again. There was enchantment in the eyes of the great wanderer, and a certain culture of its kind in its stories. Bellair listened and in the gleam of the broad, dark eyes, there seemed a glimpse of burning ships, shadowy caravans on moonlit sands and the flash of arms by night; low-lying lights of island ports, formless rafts, spuming breakers, mourning derelicts--just glimpses, but of all the gloom and garishness of the sea. He began a monologue that night, and though it is not this story, it was not interrupted except by meals and sleeping, for many days; and all the pauses in that story were the dramatic pauses of death: “... I have travelled more than most travellers and have seen more than is good for one man. In New York I saw Brundage of Frisco, who asked me if I remembered Perry. I said I remembered very well, for Perry was a bartner of mine, before young Brundage came out to the Islands. He told me Perry was six weeks buried. That is the way now. When I was young, my combanions did not die in beds. They were killed. Eight months ago, I saw Emslie--waved at him going up the river to Shanghai. He was outward bound, and came home to us in Adelaide in a sealed box. Old Foster, who is richer than I, has married a little Marie in Manila and may die when he pleases now. The South Seas still run in and yonder among Island shores, but who buys wine for the Japanese girls in Dunedin, since Norcross was conscripted for the service we all shall know?...