The Ancient City

And carries off his spoil,
With kingly scorn of toil.

“Oh! floating on the sea-river’s brine,
Where, noting each ripple of the line,
The old Minorcan fishermen, swarthy and slow,
Sit watching for the drum-fish, drumming down below;
Now and then along shore their dusky dug-outs pass,
Coming home laden down with clams and marsh grass;
One paddles, one rows, in their outlandish way,
But they pause to salute us, and give us good-day
In soft Minorcan speech,
As they pass, near the beach.

“Oh! sweeping home, where dark, in the north,
See, keeping watch, San Marco looms forth,
With its gray ruined towers in the red sunset glow,
Mounting guard o’er the tide as it ebbs to and fro;
We hear the evening gun as we reach the sea-wall,
But soft on our ears the water-murmurs fall,
Voices of the river, calling ‘Stay! stay! stay!
Children of the Northland, why flee so soon away?’
Though we go, dear river,
Thou art ours forever.”

After I had fallen asleep, haunted by the marching time of Sara’s verse, I dreamed that there was a hand tapping at my chamber door, and, half roused, I said to myself that it was only dreams, and nothing more. But it kept on, and finally, wide awake, I recognized the touch of mortal fingers, and withdrew the bolt. Aunt Diana rushed in, pale and disheveled in the moonlight.

“What is the matter?” I exclaimed.

“Niece Martha,” replied Aunt Di, sinking into a chair, “Iris has disappeared!”

Grand tableau, in which Sara took part from the majestic bed.

“She went to her room an hour ago,” pursued Aunt Di; “it is next to mine, you know, and I went in there just now for some camphor, and found her gone!”

“Dear, dear! Where can the child have gone to?”

“An elopement,” said Aunt Di, in a sepulchral tone.

“Not Mokes?”

“No. If it had been Mokes, I should not have – that is to say, it would have been highly reprehensible in Iris, but – However, it is not Mokes; he is sound asleep in his room; I sent there to see.” And Aunt Diana betook herself to her handkerchief.

“Can it be John Hoffman?” I mused, half to myself.

“Mr. Hoffman went up to his room some time ago,” said Sara.

“And pray how do you know, Miss St. John?” asked Aunt Di, coming out stiffly from behind her handkerchief. “Mr. Hoffman would have been very glad to – and, as it happens, he is not in his room at all.”

“Then of course – Oh, irretrievable folly!” I exclaimed, in dismay.

“But it isn’t John Hoffman, I tell you,” said Aunt Diana, relapsing into dejection again. “He has gone out sailing with the Van Andens; I heard them asking him – a moonlight excursion.”

Then the three of us united:

IN TWO PARTS. – PART II

“The tide comes in; the birds fly low,
As if to catch our speech:
Ah, Destiny! why must we ever go
Away from the Florida Beach?”

AUNT DIANA declared that I must go with her back to the hotel, and I in my turn declared that if I went Sara must accompany me; so it ended in our taking the key of the house from the sleepy Sabre-boy and all three going back together through the moon-lighted street across the plaza to the hotel. Although it was approaching midnight, the Ancient City had yet no thought of sleep. Its idle inhabitants believed in taking the best of life, and so on moonlight nights they roamed about, two and two, or leaned over their balconies chatting with friends across the way in an easy-going, irregular fashion, which would have distracted an orthodox New England village, where the lights are out at ten o’clock, or they know the reason why. When near the hotel we saw John Hoffman coming from the Basin.

“We had better tell him,” I suggested.

“Oh no,” said Aunt Di, holding me back.

“But we must have somebody with us if we are going any farther to-night, aunt, and he is the best person. – Mr. Hoffman, did you enjoy the sail?”

“I did not go,” answered John, looking somewhat surprised to see us confronting him at that hour, like the three witches of Macbeth. Aunt Di was disheveled, and so was I, while Sara’s golden hair was tumbling about her shoulders under the hat she had hastily tied on.

“Have you been out all the evening?” asked Aunt Di, suspiciously.

“I went to my room an hour ago, but the night was so beautiful I slipped down the back stairs, so as to not disturb the household, and came out again to walk on the sea-wall.”

“Sara did hear him go up to his room: she knows his step, then,” I thought. But I could not stop to ponder over this discovery. “Mr. Hoffman,” I said, “you find us in some perplexity. Miss Carew is out loitering somewhere, in the moonlight, and, like the heedless child she is, has forgotten the hour. We are looking for her, but have no idea where she has gone.”

“Probably the demi-lune,” suggested John. Then, catching the ominous expression of Aunt Diana’s face, he added, “They have all gone out to the Rose Garden by moonlight, I think.”

“All?”

“Miss Sharp and the Professor.”

All three of us. “Miss Sharp and the Professor?”

John (carelessly). “The Captain too, of course.”

All three of us. “The Captain too, of course!”

John. “Suppose we stroll out that way and join them?”

Myself. “The very thing – it is such a lovely evening!” Then to Aunt Di, under my breath, “You see, it is only one of Iris’s wild escapades, aunt; we must make light of it as a child’s freak. We had better stroll out that way, and all walk back together, as though it was a matter of course.”

Aunt Di. “Miss Sharp and the Professor!”

Sara. “What a madcap freak!”

Aunt Di. “Not at all, not at all, Miss St. John. I am at a loss to know what you mean by madcap. My niece is simply taking a moonlight walk in company with her governess and Professor Macquoid, one of the most distinguished scientific men in the country, as I presume you are aware.”