headlands of sheer cliff. There she sailed straight in, till the leaves
of the broad olive tree at the head of the inlet were tangled in her
cordage. Then the Wanderer, without once looking back, or saying one
word of farewell to his crew, caught a bough of the olive tree with his
hand, and swung himself ashore. Here he kneeled, and kissed the earth,
and, covering his head within his cloak, he prayed that he might find
his house at peace, his wife dear and true, and his son worthy of him.

But not one word of his prayer was to be granted. The Gods give and
take, but on the earth the Gods cannot restore.

When he rose from his knees he glanced back across the waters, but there
was now no ship in the haven, nor any sign of a sail upon the seas.

And still the land was silent; not even the wild birds cried a welcome.

The sun was hardly up, men were scarce awake, the Wanderer said to
himself; and he set a stout heart to the steep path leading up the hill,
over the wolds, and across the ridge of rock that divides the two masses
of the island. Up he climbed, purposing, as of old, to seek the house of
his faithful servant, the swineherd, and learn from him the tidings of
his home. On the brow of a hill he stopped to rest, and looked down on
the house of the servant. But the strong oak palisade was broken, no
smoke came from the hole in the thatched roof, and, as he approached,
the dogs did not run barking, as sheep-dogs do, at the stranger. The
very path to the house was overgrown, and dumb with grass; even a dog's
keen ears could scarcely have heard a footstep.

The door of the swineherd's hut was open, but all was dark within. The
spiders had woven a glittering web across the empty blackness, a sign