 | Gemma of The Isles |  |
68
Scene II.
—Evening. The seashore. A crowd assembled. Lorenzo and a fisherman.Fisher.
They must have perished—every soul on board,
Except this one I told you of.
Lor.
And he—
What sort of man? A sailor, a mere sailor?
Fisher.
No, no, my lord! I know not what to call him—
In size and strength a giant, such as ne'er
Was born in all the islands of old Greece,
Or any land I 've heard of. How he swam!
To watch him as he came, with head thrown back,
Still yellow, like a sun, though drenched in brine,
Now swallowed up, now bursting through again,
You would have thought it was a ship-wrecked lion
Struggling against the billows. Such a feat,
I think, has not been seen since earth began!
Lor.
You said you left him sleeping?
Fisher.
Or at least,
Motionless as the huge rough-hewn Apollo,
In yonder northern quarries. And to own
The simple truth, we care not to come near him.
So there he lies, his garments dropping brine,
And his head resting on a heap of weed.
Perchance he is dead.
69
Well, guide us to the spot.
[Exeunt Lorenzo and Fisherman with armed followers.
| Gemma of The Isles | |