Presently the Don said, standing with fingers interlaced behind his back, and looking far away down the River, “Do you know, it would be hard for me to live at a spot remote from salt water? All the great thoughts that have moved the world have arisen within sound of the sea-waves. She is the mother of civilization. It is the land which separates the peoples of the earth, not the water. It thrills me to think that, as I stand here, this river which splashes against my foot is part of that ocean which washes the shores of England, of France, of Italy, of Greece, of Palestine.” Palestine! Strange word on the lips of a man who never went to church. “Then, again,” continued he, with a smile, “I love the sea because it reminds me—I don’t mind telling you, since I have let you into my little secret—because it reminds me of Homer, and the epithets he has applied to it.” “Ah, that reminds _me_ of something! Have you forgotten your promise to talk to me about Homer? Have you that little copy of the Iliad in your pocket now?” “Of course,” said he, tapping his vest. “Will you not let me have it in my hand _now_?” He shook his head, smiling. “No; but have you not the right to command me now? Speak, and I obey!” “Ah! Then I command you, on your allegiance, to deliver that book into my hands.” He hesitated for a moment, and his hand shook a little when he placed the book in hers. She took the left lid between finger and thumb; but his look of ill-suppressed agitation made her hesitate, and _her_ hand began to tremble now, she knew not why. “May I look?” she asked, in a rather shaky voice. “If you will! But I warn you that that fly-leaf will tell you what you have forbidden me to reveal.” “Oh!” cried she, with a start. And the book fell upon the shining sand. He stooped and picked it up. “Have you had enough of it?” “More than enough,—for the present, at least,” she replied, smiling faintly. “However,” she added, “I should like to look at the outside of it. How very old it looks,” said she, as she took it in her hand. “Why, the corners are worn perfectly round; you must know it all by heart.” “Almost,” said he. “And the back—what!” exclaimed she, with astonishment. “Why, this is not the Iliad! It is a copy of the New Testament!” And she held up the faded title before his eyes. With a black look of annoyance, but without a word, the Don seized the book, thrust it into his pocket, and began striding to and fro. Presently he stopped in front of her. “I put my hand into the wrong pocket,” said he, with obvious vexation. “Why, yes. But what’s the harm?” said she, in a soothing voice. “Carrying a Testament in one’s pocket is nothing to be ashamed of, I hope?” “Certainly not! But,” he added, with a half smile, “taking it out is different.” “And so,” she began, feeling her way, “you carry the Iliad in one pocket and the Testament in the other.” But it was not now of the Iliad that she wished to hear him talk.