“All the same,” said Edrupt thoughtfully, “a Londoner beats a Turk even for a galley-slave--eh, Nicholas?” “We were never slaves,” said Nicholas. “We were free men doing the work of slaves for a time. We had memory and hope left us. There is nothing to be learned at such work. Stick together and give them the slip if you can--that's all the wisdom of the galleys.” HARBOUR SONG Sails in the mist-gray morning, wide wings alert for flight, Outward you fare with the sea-wind, seeking your ancient right To range with your foster-brethren, the sleepless waves of the sea, And come at the end of your wandering home again to me. By the bright Antares, the Shield of Sobieski, By the Southern Cross ablaze above the hot black sea, You shall seek the Pole-Star below the far horizon,-- Steer by Arthur's Wain, lads, and home again to me! Caravel, sloop and galleon follow the salt sea gale That whispers ever of treasure, the ancient maddening tale,-- Round the world he leads ye, the sorcerer of the sea, Battered and patched and bleeding ye come again to me. By the spice and sendal, beads and trumpery trinkets, By the weight of ingots that cost a thousand dead, You shall seek your fortune under hawthorn hedges,-- Come to know your birthright in the land you fled. Sails of my sons and my lovers, I watch for ye through the night, My lamps are trimmed and burning, my hearth is clear and bright. With every sough of the trade-wind that blows across the sea I wake and wait and listen for the call of your hearts to me. By Saint Malo's lanterns, by Medusa-fires Rolling round your plunging prows in midnight tropic sea, You shall sight the beacon on my headlands lifting-- All sail set, lads, and home again to me! XIV SOLOMON'S SEAL Where the moor met the woodland beyond the Fairies' Hill, old Izan went painfully searching for the herbs she had been wont to find there. The woodcutters had opened clearings that gave an unaccustomed look to the place. Fumiter, mercury, gilt-cups, four-leaved grass and the delicate blossoms of herb-robert came out to meet the sun with a half-scared look, and wished they had stayed underground. The old wife was in a bad humor, and she was not the better pleased when her donkey, moved by some eccentric donkeyish idea, gave a loud bray and went trotting gleefully off down the hill. “Saints save us!” muttered the old woman, shaking a vain crutch after him. “I can never walk all that distance.” But the donkey was not to get his holiday so easily. There came a shout from the forest, and a boy on a brown moor pony went racing off after the truant beast, while a lady and a young girl looked on laughing. It was a very pretty chase, but at last Roger came back in triumph and tethered the donkey, repentant and lop-eared, to a wind-warped oak.