The fireplace was great
enough for Gog and Magog to have warmed themselves thereby. Around, in
an orderly litter, yet stood on table or bench or shelf many of the
matters that Alexander had gathered there in his boyhood. In one
corner was the furnace that when he was sixteen his father had let him
build. More recent was the oaken table in the middle of the room, two
deep chairs, and shelves with many books. After the warmth of the sun
the place presented a grave, cool, brown harbor.
The two, entering, had each an arm over the other's shoulder. Where
they were known their friendship was famed. Youth and manhood, they
had been together when it was possible. When it was not so the
thought of each outtraveled separation. Their differences, their
varied colors of being, seemed but to bind them closer. They entered
this room like David and Jonathan.
Ian also was tall, but not so largely made as was the other. Lithe,
embrowned, with gold-bronze hair and eyes, knit of a piece, moving as
by one undulation, there was something in him not like the Scot,
something foreign, exotic. Sometimes Alexander called him "Saracen"--a
finding of the imagination that dated from old days upon the moor
above the Kelpie's Pool when they read together the _Faery Queen_. The
other day, at Black Hill, this ancient fancy had played through
Alexander's mind while Mr.
Pages:
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140