so powerfully was he made. One of his sandals suddenly fell into the
bay. He had seized hold of the rail of the gangway, and the leather
sandal dropped into the water with a slight splash. His grasp of the
rail being broken, he was gradually being pushed, limping, to the
dock. His one bare foot and his half-exposed and shapely body caused
a gale of laughter from the docks and the wharf.

The gangway was quickly withdrawn, and our ship began to move from
the shore. The ejected one stood watching us with sorrow shadowing
his large eyes. He was of middle size; with the form of a David
of Michelangelo, though lithe, and he wore no hat, but had a long,
brown beard, which, with his brown hair, parted in the middle and
falling over his shoulders, and his archaic garb, gave me a singular
shock. It was as if a boyhood vision, or something seen in a painting,
was made real. His eyes were the deepest blue, limpid and appealing,
and I felt like shouting out that if it was a matter of money,
I would aid the man in the toga.

"Christ!" yelled the frantic dock superintendent. "Get that line cast
off and let her go! Are you ceemented to that hooker?"

Instantly before me came Munkácsy's picture of the Master before
Pilate, evoked by the profanity of the wharf boss, but explaining
the vision of a moment ago. The Noa-Noa emitted a cry from her iron
throat. The engines started, and the distance between our deck and
the pier grew as our bow swung toward the Golden Gate. The strange
man who had been put ashore, with his one sandal in his hand, and
holding his torn toga about him, hastened to the nearest stringer of
the wharf and waved good-by to us. It was as if a prophet, or even
Saul of Tarsus, blessed us in our quest. He stood on a tall group of