Then a small blunt skiff--manned by two rowers came by under the wall,
with the thudding and the creak of oars.
"So 'To-morrow we die'?" said Miltoun: "You mean, I suppose, that
'public life' is the breath of my nostrils, and I must die, because I
give it up?"
Courtier nodded.
"Am I right in thinking that it was my young sister who sent you on this
crusade?"
Courtier did not answer.
"And so," Miltoun went on, looking him through and through; "to-morrow
is to be your last day, too? Well, you're right to go. She is not an
ugly duckling, who can live out of the social pond; she'll always want
her native element. And now, we'll say goodbye! Whatever happens to
us both, I shall remember this evening." Smiling, he put out his hand
'Moriturus te saluto.'
CHAPTER XXIII
Courtier sat in Hyde Park waiting for five o'clock. The day had
recovered somewhat from a grey morning, as though the glow of that long
hot summer were too burnt-in on the air to yield to the first assault.
The sun, piercing the crisped clouds, those breast feathers of heavenly
doves, darted its beams at the mellowed leaves, and showered to the
ground their delicate shadow stains. The first, too early, scent from
leaves about to fall, penetrated to the heart. And sorrowful sweet birds
were tuning their little autumn pipes, blowing into them fragments of
Spring odes to Liberty.
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