XXVIII.

The winds of North and South are, as I have said, but small princes amongst the powers of the sea.  They have no territory of their own; they are not reigning winds anywhere.  Yet it is from their houses that the reigning dynasties which have shared between them the waters of the earth are sprung.  All the weather of the world is based upon the contest of the Polar and Equatorial strains of that tyrannous race.  The West Wind is the greatest king.  The East rules between the Tropics.  They have shared each ocean between them.  Each has his genius of supreme rule.  The King of the West never intrudes upon the recognised dominion of his kingly brother.  He is a barbarian, of a northern type.  Violent without craftiness, and furious without malice, one may imagine him seated masterfully with a double-edged sword on his knees upon the painted and gilt clouds of the sunset, bowing his shock head of golden locks, a flaming beard over his breast, imposing, colossal, mighty-limbed, with a thundering voice, distended cheeks and fierce blue eyes, urging the speed of his gales.  The other, the East king, the king of blood-red sunrises, I represent to myself as a spare Southerner with clear-cut features, black-browed and dark-eyed, gray-robed, upright in sunshine, resting a smooth-shaven cheek in the palm of his hand, impenetrable, secret, full of wiles, fine-drawn, keen—­ meditating aggressions.

The West Wind keeps faith with his brother, the King of the Easterly weather.  “What we have divided we have divided,” he seems to say in his gruff voice, this ruler without guile, who hurls as if in sport enormous masses of cloud across the sky, and flings the great waves of the Atlantic clear across from the shores of the New World upon the hoary headlands of Old Europe, which harbours more kings and rulers upon its seamed and furrowed body than all the oceans of the world together.  “What we have divided we have divided; and if no rest and peace in this world have fallen to my share, leave me alone.  Let me play at quoits with cyclonic gales, flinging the discs of spinning cloud and whirling air from one end of my dismal kingdom to the other:  over the Great Banks or along the edges of pack-ice—­this one with true aim right into the bight of the Bay of Biscay, that other upon the fiords of Norway, across the North Sea where the fishermen of many nations look watchfully into my angry eye.  This is the time of kingly sport.”

And the royal master of high latitudes sighs mightily, with the sinking sun upon his breast and the double-edged sword upon his knees, as if wearied by the innumerable centuries of a strenuous rule and saddened by the unchangeable aspect of the ocean under his feet—­by the endless vista of future ages where the work of sowing the wind and reaping the whirlwind shall go on and on till his realm of living waters becomes a frozen and motionless ocean.  But the other,