“After this (said Prince), finding no trace of habitation on the island, and being convinced that no ship ever passed within sight of it, the seamen caught and killed four of the sheep which ran wild upon the cliffs, and with the flesh of them provisioned the boat in which they had come ashore, and took their leave.  For eleven days they steered as nearly due east as they could—­that being the quarter in which they supposed the mainland to lie, until a gale overtook them, and, drowning the rest, cast four of them alive on the coast near Mogador, where the Moors fell on them and sold them into slavery, to masters living wide apart.  Yet, and howsoever the others perished, in the mouth of this one man the story lived and came after many days to ears that understood it.

“For Prince Henry, hearing the pilot’s tale, believed verily that this must be the island for which his sea-captains had been searching, and in 1420 sent Zarco forth again to seek it, with the old man on board.  They reached Porto Santo, where they heard of a dark line visible in all clear weather on the southern horizon, and sailing for it through the fogs, came to a marshy cape, and beyond this cape to high wooded land which Morales recognized at once from his fellow-prisoner’s description.  Yes, and bringing them to shore he led them, unerring, to the wooden cross above the beach; and there, over the grave of these lovers, Zarco took seizin of the island in the name of King John of Portugal, Prince Henry, and the Order of Christ.

“From this,” my father concluded, “we may learn, first, that human passion, of all things the most transient, may be stronger and more enduring than death; of all things the unruliest and most deserving to be chastened, it may rise naked from the scourge to claim the homage of all men; nay, that this mire in which the multitude wallows may on an instant lift up a brow of snow and challenge the Divinity Himself, saying, ’We are of one essence, Shall not I too work miracles?’ Secondly—­”

“Your pardon, master,” put in Billy, “but in all the fine speeches about Love and War and suchlike that I’ve heard you read out of books afore now, I could never make out what use they be to common fellows like myself.  Say ’tis a battle:  you start us off with a shout, which again starts off our betters a-knocking together other folks’ heads and their own:  but afterwards, when I’m waiting and wondering what became of Billy Priske, all the upshot is that some thousand were slaughtered and maybe enough to set some river running with blood.  Likewise with these seamen, that never ran off with their neighbours’ wives, but behaved pretty creditable under the circumstances, which didn’t prevent their being spilt out of boats and eaten by fishes or cast ashore and barbecued by heathen Turks—­a pretty thing this Love did for them, I say.  And so to come to my own case, which is where this talk started, I desire with all respect, master, that you will first ease my mind of this question—­be I in love, or bain’t I?”