But as Charles Dean leaned over the taffrail and watched the flowing coastline dimly streaming into distance, it was not without a stirring of deep interest. This was the classic land of great adventure; they were near the coast of Phoenicia; behind that range was Sidon, looking towards Palestine. This sea had seen Jason and his Argonauts searching the coast of Colchis for the Golden Fleece. All the ancient world of the Greeks was here, and the tides of barbaric splendour had swept over that land; Greek, Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman rulers had shaped its destiny. It was the great battlefield of the world; the Greeks sailing for Troy, the Ten Thousand, had all known that shore and the mountains still slept by the thundering seas as in the days of Alexander and of Caesar. Peak after peak of those mountains with their historic names arose and looked inland, the mountains of Ionia, Ida and Casia, of Bithynia, Pontus and Paphlogonia; violet and blue and amethyst, they stretched like sleeping animals in the March sunlight, clothed with a forest growth and fringed with pine trees. So all day long the little steamer went along its pathway of foam; during those hours, Charles Dean and his wife were sustained by the excitement of their entry into a new world. The last four years of their lives had been spent in journeying from city to city, from country to country. Amsterdam, Berlin and Bordeaux had held them for a short time. Eastwards then Charles Dean received a call from the trading company employing him, this time to Constantinople. That had been the pleasantest of all their sojournings in foreign lands. The city of mosques and minarets, with its beautiful gardens and golden sea, had seemed like a dream from one of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments. And now the gradual extension eastwards of business, was carrying them to Amasia, the city unknown, dwelling inland behind that great mountain barrier. It was a strange life, yet not without its fascinations. Mary Dean insisted upon accompanying her husband. She had the choice of remaining in England, but she swept it aside unhesitatingly. Devoid of fear and devoted to her husband, she went with him from land to land. With them also went their young son, John Narcissus Dean. Narcissus! exclaimed everybody, hearing the name. "Yes, Narcissus," answered handsome Charles Dean solemnly, while the light of humour danced in his grey eyes; and then followed the story of that honeymoon in Naples, when Mary, after seeing the famous statue of "Narcissus listening to Echo," had pleaded with her young husband, assisted by a Jew curio shopkeeper, for a copy she coveted. "But I want a real Narcissus," whispered the young man, pressing her hand quietly, while the Jew dusted the expensive bronzes on his counter. "You shall have one--if I can have this," she answered roguishly. He nearly kissed her in boyish ecstasy. "Done!" he cried--"and we'll call him 'Narcissus.'"