"Comme c'est beau, ça!" he murmured.
Errington said nothing; he recognized the tune as that which Thelma had sung at her spinning-wheel, and his bold bright eyes grew pensive and soft, as the picture of the fair face and form rose up again before his mind. Absorbed in a reverie, he almost started when Lorimer ceased playing, and said lightly-"By-bye, boys! I'm off to bed! Phil, don't wake me so abominably early as you did this morning. If you do, friendship can hold out no longer--we must part!"
"All right!" laughed Errington good-humoredly, watching his friend as he sauntered out of the saloon; then seeing Duprèz and Macfarlane rise from the table, he added courteously, "Don't hurry away on Lorimer's account, you two. I'm not in the least sleepy,--I'll sit up with you to any hour."
"It is droll to go to bed in broad daylight," said Duprèz. "But it must be done. Cher Philippe, your eyes are heavy. 'To bed, to bed,' as the excellent Madame Macbeth says. Ah! quelle femme! What an exciting wife she was for a man? Come, let us follow our dear Lorimer,--his music was delicious. Good night or good morning? . . . I know not which it is in this strange land where the sun shines always! It is confusing!"
They shook hands and separated. Errington, however, unable to compose his mind to rest, went into his cabin merely to come out of it again and betake himself to the deck, where he decided to walk up and down till he felt sleepy. He wished to be alone with his own thoughts for awhile--to try and resolve the meaning of this strange new emotion that possessed him,--a feeling that was half pleasing, half painful, and that certainly moved him to a sort of shame. A man, if he be strong and healthy, is always more or less ashamed when Love, with a single effort, proves him to be weaker than a blade of grass swaying in the wind. What! all his dignity, all his resoluteness, all his authority swept down by the light touch of a mere willow wand? for the very sake of his own manhood and self-respect, he cannot help but be ashamed! It is as though a little nude, laughing child mocked at a lion's strength, and made him a helpless prisoner with a fragile daisy chain. So the god Eros begins his battles, which end in perpetual victory,--first fear and shame,--then desire and passion,--then conquest and possession. And afterwards? ah! . . . afterwards the pagan deity is powerless,--a higher God, a grander force, a nobler creed must carry Love to its supreme and best fulfillment.