--The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.

--Good, Stephen said.

He walked along the upwardcurving path.


LILIATA RUTILANTIUM.
TURMA CIRCUMDET.
IUBILANTIUM TE VIRGINUM.


The priest's grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. I will
not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.

A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning
the curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleek brown head, a
seal's, far out on the water, round.

Usurper.


* * * * * * *


--You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?

--Tarentum, sir.