“Hail to thee, Jacob, son of Isaac; and hail to thy father.”

Owen repeated the names “Jacob!” “Isaac!” a light came into his face, and he drew himself up in his saddle, understanding suddenly that he had fallen out of the “Odyssey,” landing in the very midst of the Bible; for there it was, walking about him:  Abraham and Isaac, the old man willing to sacrifice his son to please some implacable God hidden behind a cloud; Jacob selling his birthright to Esau, the birthright of camels, sheep, and goats.  And down his mind floated the story of Joseph sold by his brethren, and that of Ruth and Boaz:  “Thy people shall be my people, thy God shall be my God,” a story of corn rather than of flocks and herds.  For the sake of Boaz she would accept Yahveh.  But would he accept such a God for Evelyn’s sake, and such a brute?—­always telling his people if they continued to adore him they would be given not only strength to overcome their enemies, but even the pleasure of dashing out the brains of their enemies’ children against the stones; and thinking of the many apocalyptic inventions, the many-headed beasts of Isaiah, the Cherubim and Seraphim, who were not stalwart and beautiful angels, but many-headed beasts from Babylonia, Owen remembered that these revolting monsters had been made beautiful in the AEgean:  sullen Astaarte, desiring sacrifice and immolation, had risen from the waters, a ravishing goddess with winged Loves marvelling about her, Loves with conches to their lips, blowing the glad news to the world.

“How the thought wanders!” he said, “A moment ago I was among the abominations of Isaiah.  Now I am back, if not with the Greek Venus, ‘whom men no longer call the Erecine,’ at all events with an enchanting Parisian, nearly as beautiful, and more delightful—­a voluptuous goddess, laughing amid her hair, drawn less austerely than Ingres, but much more firmly than Boucher or Fragonard... a fragrant goddess.”

And meditating with half his mind, he admired the endurance of his horse with the other, who, though he could neither trot, nor gallop, nor walk, could amble deliciously.

“If not a meditative animal himself, his gait conduces to meditation,” Owen said, and he continued to dream that art could only be said to have flourished among Mediterranean peoples, until he was roused from his reverie by his horse, who suddenly pricked up his ears and broke into a canter.  He had been travelling since six in the morning, and it was now evening; but he was fresh enough to prick up his ears, scenting, no doubt, an encampment, the ashes of former fires, the litter left by some wayfarers, desert wanderers, bedouins, Hebrews.