Again an interval of unconsciousness, brought to an end by that
aching in his side. He breathed very quickly; could not help
doing so. He had never felt so ill as this, never. Was it not
near morning?
Then he dreamt. He was at Patras, was stepping into a boat to be
rowed out to the steamer which would bear him away from Greece. A
magnificent night, though at the end of December; a sky of deep
blue, thick set with stars. No sound but the steady splash of the
oars, or perhaps a voice from one of the many vessels that lay
anchored in the harbour, each showing its lantern-gleams. The
water was as deep a blue as the sky, and sparkled with reflected
radiance.
And now he stood on deck in the light of early morning. Southward
lay the Ionian Islands; he looked for Ithaca, and grieved that it
had been passed in the hours of darkness. But the nearest point
of the main shore was a rocky promontory; it reminded him that in
these waters was fought the battle of Actium.
The glory vanished. He lay once more a sick man in a hired
chamber, longing for the dull English dawn.
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