The sea, ancient, youthful, made her everlasting song. Air breathed salt and fresh, colour was rife. Boats, houses, the incoming wave, the line of low cliff, fell into picture. Montjoy has seen so many! Could he have painted he might paint forever and only begin. He heard a voice speaking, a voice with quality, that somehow stirred the pictures. They trembled, pushed slightly by others behind. “Love and understand! Lay hold where you can, begin where you will!” He asked a woman leaning against a boat near the new boat. “Who is it?” “It is the smith Richard. He dwelleth in town a league away, but at times he cometh this way.” “Is he preaching?” “No. But he talketh to us at times.” “He uses your tongue well, but still I would say--” “Aye, he comes from over the water.” Montjoy moved into the ring of fisher folk. A great flapping hat of palmer shadowed his face. Those about saw straying pilgrim and gave him room. Richard a smith, not Breton but English. A tall, gold-brown, simple-seeming man, strong enough, quiet enough, loving enough of face--and now level ray of the morning sun lighted his face. _He did not drown in Wander!_ How much was true and how much was mistake of the much that the many found to say? Like the thunder and murmur and waves of the sea rose within voices and voices and yet voices. Abbot Mark’s voice Prior Matthew’s, Prior Hugh’s, Friar Martin’s, Father Edmund’s, the Hermit by the Old Burying Ground, Brothers Andrew and Barnaby, Anselm’s, Norbert’s, Somerville’s voice, voice of Master Eustace Bettany and of young Thomas Bettany, voice even of Godfrey the gaoler, voices of pilgrims chanting, Middle Forest’s voice, voices of Silver Cross, voices of his own squires and castle folk, voice of Westforest and Wander vale. Voice of Morgen Fay. Further back, voice of Isabel, and then again the heavy waves. “O God, _Thy_ voice!” The hubbub sank away. The tide came in with a quiet rhyme. Morning sand shone in a great golden stillness. Village and sea and boats held in contentment. The fisher folk sat or stood, listening. The speaker was speaking, Montjoy a pilgrim, listening, agreeing. Quiet and the salt air and the sun. Quietness and certitude. _I am, from everlasting to everlasting._ The gold-brown man ceased his speaking or his answering questions, for it had been largely questioning and answering. Lifting a bundle that lay beside him he looked to a league-distant point striking out into the sea, where seemed more houses than were here. One of the fishermen spoke. “I’ll take you, master, in the _Nightingale_.” The small sailboat carried the palmer also,--the palmer and Richard the smith and two boatmen. The latter were still for questions. “You have been to Jerusalem? What like is it?” “It is so and so,” answered the palmer. “But I say with this man, ‘Let us now build the New Jerusalem!’” The smith turned to him, “There is something in your voice, friend--”