Part 55 (1/2)

'_Sans purr_,' answered Blake; 'the Celtic wild cat has not the servile accomplishment of purring. The words, a little altered, are the motto of the Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders. This is the country of the wild cat.'

'I thought the ”wild cat” was a peculiarly American financial animal,'

said Merton.

Miss Macrae laughed, and, the gong sounding (by electricity, the wire being connected with the Greenwich Observatory), she ran lightly up the central staircase. Lady Bude had hurried to rejoin her lord; Merton and Blake sauntered out to their rooms in the observatory, Blake with an air of fatigue and languor.

'Learning ping-pong easily?' asked Merton.

'I have more hopes of teaching Miss Macrae the essential and intimate elements of Celtic poetry,' said Blake. 'One box of books I brought with me, another arrived to-day. I am about to begin on my Celtic drama of ”Con of the Hundred Battles.”'

'Have you the works of the ancient Sennachie, Macfootle?' asked Merton.

He was jealous, and his usual urbanity was sorely tried by the Irish bard. In short, he was rude; stupid, too.

However, Blake had his revenge after dinner, on the roof of the observatory, where the ladies gathered round him in the faint silver light, looking over the sleeping sea. 'Far away to the west,' he said, 'lies the Celtic paradise, the Isle of Apples!'

'American apples are excellent,' said Merton, but the beauty of the scene and natural courtesy caused Miss Macrae to whisper 'Hus.h.!.+'

The poet went on, 'May I speak to you the words of the emissary from the lovely land?'

'The mysterious female?' said Merton brutally. 'Dr. Hyde calls her ”a mysterious female.” It is in his _Literary History of Ireland_.'

'Pray let us hear the poem, Mr. Merton,' said Miss Macrae, attuned to the charm of the hour and the scene.

'She came to Bran's Court,' said Blake, 'from the Isle of Apples, and no man knew whence she came, and she chanted to them.'

'Twenty-eight quatrains, no less, a hundred and twelve lines,' said the insufferable Merton. 'Could you give us them in Gaelic?'

The bard went on, not noticing the interruption, 'I shall translate

'There is a distant isle Around which sea horses glisten, A fair course against the white swelling surge, Four feet uphold it.'

'Feet of white bronze under it.'

'White bronze, what's that, eh?' asked the practical Mr. Macrae.

'Glittering through beautiful ages!

Lovely land through the world's age, On which the white blossoms drop.'

'Beautiful!' said Miss Macrae.

'There are twenty-six more quatrains,' said Merton.

The bard went on,

'A beautiful game, most delightful They play--'

'Ping-pong?' murmured Merton.

'Hus.h.!.+' said Lady Bude.