“So is the human heart, of which he was master; so is the ocean, to which he has been compared,—eternal movement and eternal repose. But what you said just now, as to the Lethean effect of music, reminded me of that grand scene in the Iliad, where Ulysses and Phœnix and Ajax go, as ambassadors of Agamemnon, to Achilles, with offerings and apologies for the wrong that has been done him. This man, whose heart was full of indignant shame because of the insults which had been heaped upon him,—who, though the bravest of the Greeks, had gone apart by the sea-shore to weep bitter tears,—him they found solacing his sorrows with music. But a little while ago and he had been ready to strike Agamemnon dead in the midst of his troops. What a surprise when the poet draws the curtain, and there flashes upon our astonished eyes the inexorable, flinty-hearted captain of the Myrmidons seated with his friend Patroklus, peacefully singing to his lyre the illustrious deeds of heroes! What a master-stroke!” cried he, with flashing eyes. “It is like the sudden bursting upon the view of a green valley in the midst of barren rocks. And you don’t like Homer?” “Oh, that is beautiful, really beautiful!” she hastened to say, abashed at the sentiment she had just uttered. “One often fails to see beauties till they are pointed out. Won’t you talk to me some day about Homer?” “Gladly,” said he; and he smiled, then almost laughed aloud. “Ah, it is really unkind to laugh at me!” “Not at all. I was laughing to think how little you dream what you are drawing down upon your head when you ask me to talk to you about Homer. You see I, too, have a little confession to make.” “What is it?” she asked, eagerly. “Perhaps I should have said confidence rather than confession; but, upon second thought—” “Oh, do tell me!” He hesitated. “I shall positively die with curiosity!” “If there be any danger of that,” said he,—and he put his forefinger and thumb in his vest-pocket and looked at her and smiled. “Well?” “Will you promise not to think me so very, very foolish?” said he, mimicking her tones of a little while before. And he drew an object from his pocket and held it up. “What is it,—a book?” “Yes, a book;” removing from a much-worn morocco case a small volume. “Oh, yes, your Testament!” Mary had not forgotten what I had told of a certain incident that had occurred in the Don’s rooms in Richmond, and had heedlessly alluded to it. “My Testament!” said he, with a quick, suspicious look. She felt that she had blundered; but Mary Rolfe, like the majority of her sex, was a woman. “Why, isn’t it a Testament?” asked she, carelessly; “it has just the look of some of those little English editions.” And she held out her hand. “Oh!” said the Don, looking relieved. “No, it is not a Testament.” “What is it, then?” said she, her hand still extended. “It is a copy of the Iliad; and my little confession is, that I have carried it in this pocket ever so many years.”