The Flying Inn | Page 8

his sword, may well have our sympathy if he
himself views the cession with some sentimental regret; but I have little
doubt that he also will live to rejoice in it at last. And I would remind
you that it is not the vine alone that has been the sign of the glory of the
South. There is another sacred tree unstained by loose and violent
memories, guiltless of the blood of Pentheus or of Orpheus and the
broken lyre. We shall pass from this place in a little while as all things
pass and perish:
"Far called, our navies melt away. On dune and headland sinks the fire,
And all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre.
"But so long as sun can shine and soil can nourish, happier men and

women after us shall look on this lovely islet and it shall tell its own
story; for they shall see these three holy olive trees lifted in everlasting
benediction, over the humble spot out of which came the peace of the
world."
The other two men were staring at Patrick Dalroy; his hand had
tightened on the tree, and a giant billow of effort went over his broad
breast. A small stone jerked itself out of the ground at the foot of the
tree as if it were a grasshopper jumping; and then the coiled roots of the
olive tree rose very slowly out of the earth like the limbs of a dragon
lifting itself from sleep.
"I offer an olive branch," said the King of Ithaca, totteringly leaning the
loose tree so that its vast shadow, much larger than itself, fell across the
whole council. "An olive branch," he gasped, "more glorious than my
sword. Also heavier."
Then he made another effort and tossed it into the sea below.
The German, who was no German, had put up his arm in apprehension
when the shadow fell across him. Now he got up and edged away from
the table; seeing that the wild Irishman was tearing up the second tree.
This one came out more easily; and before he flung it after the first, he
stood with it a moment; looking like a man juggling with a tower.
Lord Ivywood showed more firmness; but he rose in tremendous
remonstrance. Only the Turkish Pasha still sat with blank eyes,
immovable. Dalroy rent out the last tree and hurled it, leaving the
island bare.
"There!" said Dalroy, when the third and last olive had splashed in the
tide. "Now I will go. I have seen something today that is worse than
death: and the name of it is Peace."
Oman Pasha rose and held out his hand.
"You are right," he said in French, "and I hope we meet again in the
only life that is a good life. Where are you going now?"

"I am going," said Dalroy, dreamily, "to 'The Old Ship.'"
"Do you mean?" asked the Turk, "that you are going back to the
warships of the English King?"
"No," answered the other, "I am going back to 'The Old Ship' that is
behind the apple trees by Pebblewick; where the Ule flows among the
trees. I fear I shall never see you there."
After an instant's hesitation he wrung the red hand of the great tyrant
and walked to his boat without a glance at the diplomatists.
* * *
CHAPTER III
THE SIGN OF "THE OLD SHIP"
UPON few of the children of men has the surname of Pump fallen, and
of these few have been maddened into naming a child Humphrey in
addition to it. To such extremity, however, had the parents of the
innkeeper at "The Old Ship" proceeded, that their son might come at
last to be called "Hump" by his dearest friends, and "Pumph" by an
aged Turk with a green umbrella. All this, or all he knew of it, he
endured with a sour smile; for he was of a stoical temper.
Mr. Humphrey Pump stood outside his inn, which stood almost on the
seashore, screened only by one line of apple trees, dwarfed, twisted and
salted by the sea air; but in front of it was a highly banked bowling
green, and behind it the land sank abruptly; so that one very steep
sweeping road vanished into the depth and mystery of taller trees. Mr.
Pump was standing immediately under his trim sign, which stood erect
in the turf; a wooden pole painted white and suspending a square white
board, also painted white but further decorated with a highly grotesque
blue ship, such as a child might draw, but into which Mr. Pump's
patriotism had insinuated a disproportionately large red St. George's
cross.

Mr. Humphrey Pump was a man of middle size, with very broad
shoulders, wearing a sort