CHAPTER XIII
THE LINES LEAD UP
In the late hours of the next afternoon Rollo, with a sigh, uncoiled
himself from the shadow of the altar to the god Melkarth, in the
Ilex Temple, and stiffly rose. Vicissitudes were not for Rollo, who
had not fathomed the joys of adaptability; and the savour of the
sweet herbs which, from Jarvo's wallet, he had that day served, was
forgotten in his longing for a drop of tarragan vinegar and a bulb
of garlic with which to dress the herbs. His lean and shadowed face
wore an expression of settled melancholy.
"Sorrow's nothing," he sententiously observed. "It's trouble that
does for a man, sir."
St. George, who lay at full length on a mossy sill of the king's
chapel counting the hours of his inaction, continued to look out
over the glistening tops of the ilex trees.
"Speaking of trouble," he said, "what would you say, Rollo, to
getting back to the yacht to-night, instead of going up the mountain
with us?"
Rollo dropped his eyes, but his face brightened under, as it were,
his never-lifted mask.
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