Above, the sky was almost of a purple color in the sultry night, and the stars, brilliant and large, burned like lamps in the still air. A serene moon, half veiled in fleecy clouds, arose above the chill snows of Taygetus, and a long glittering bridge of light extended from the land to the yacht. The steady beat of the screw, which impelled the vessel through the silent waters, sounded in their ears, blending with the rich voice of Caliphronas, who had climbed up the mast, and was clinging to the weather rigging like a spectral figure in the shadowy glimmer of moon and star. “The earth breathes fragrant breaths to-night, And the perfume blows from the land. Oh, I can see the waters kissing her shores, Even as I would kiss thee, my belovèd, With thy breath more fragrant than these languid scents, Floating from the distant isles of rose-filled gardens.” “I wish I knew Greek,” said Maurice, as the Count paused for a moment; “those snatches of song sound so beautiful.” “They are beautiful,” replied Crispin idly; “I have often thought of translating some of them into English. Listen!” “I see Dione rising from the waters, A Venus of the moonlight night. Why wavest thou thy arms as ivory gleaming? Why do I see thine eyes flash as the evening star? Thy voice is as the murmur of breathing waves In twilight on a sandy beach. Callest thou me to thy home below? Ah, I will come, and beneath the placid waters Coldly white will I lie on thy cold white breast. But thro’ the door of death must I pass to gain such blisses.” “’Tis like the lyrics of Callicles in Arnold’s poem,” said Crispin, taking off his cap; “stray fragments of song scattered by the winds.” “Or like the songs in ‘Pippa Passes,’” suggested Maurice speculatively; “but I am afraid the singing of Caliphronas will not do so much good as Pippa’s.” A long sigh floated past them on the still waters, like the melancholy cry of a bird, and died away sadly in the distance. “Calypso sighing for Ulysses,” observed Crispin, without altering his position; “though I dare say it is only the wind moaning through the ropes.” “Let us think it is the voice calling, Pan is dead!” “We are classical to-night. Caliphronas has inoculated us with his antique dreams. Well, when one is in fairyland, one must dream romances.” “Suppose you tell me your romance,” said Maurice abruptly. “Of my past life? Yes; I will do so; but you must promise to keep it secret.” “I promise.” “I am afraid you will think but little of it when you know all; but I promised to tell you, so I will now fulfil my promise. In the first place, you know my name is Crispin.” “Yes; and have often wondered at its terseness. Have you no surname?” “No legal surname.” “Why not?” “Because I am a natural son.” “Illegitimate!” said Maurice, startled. “Yes. Now you see the reason for my returning to Melnos.”