“Well, anyhow,” said Doe, getting up and brushing thistles off his uniform, “don’t you think that now, as ‘this long day’s closing,’ it’s time we two ’weary English sons go west’ring home’?”

I assured him that this was not only vulgar but also void of wit; and he sulked, while we turned our faces to the west and retraced our former path.  Once again the summits of the hills, as we stepped upon them, showed us the lofty grandeur of the AEgean world.  We halted to examine the wonderful sight that loomed in the sky-spaces to the north of Lemnos.  This was the huge brows, fronting the clouds, of the Island of Samothrace.  To me they appeared as one long precipice, from whose top frivolous people (such as Edgar Doe) could tickle the stars.

“St. Paul left Troas,” ventured I, “and came with a straight course to Samothrace,” a little blossom of news which angered Doe, because he had not thought of it first.  So, after deliberate brain-racking, he went one better with the information: 

“The great Greek god, Poseidon, sat on Samothrace, and watched the Siege of Troy.  It looks like the throne of a god, doesn’t it?  I wonder if the old boy’s sitting there now, watching the fight for the Dardanelles.”

As he spoke the sun was falling behind the peaks of Lemnos and nearing the Greek mainland, which revealed itself, through the evening light, in the splendid conical point of Mount Athos.  And, at our feet, the loose stones and broken rocks had assumed a pink tint on their facets that looked towards the setting sun.  The browsing sheep, too, had enriched their wool with colours, borrowed from the sunset.  Everywhere hung the impression that a day was done; over yonder a lonely Greek, side-saddle on his mule, was wending home.

“The sun’s going west to Falmouth,” said Doe, inflamed by my recent appreciation of his poem.  “It’ll be there in two hours.  Wouldn’t I like to hang on to one of its beams and go with it!”

“Don’t stand there talking such gaff,” I said, “but get a move on, if you want to be back in Mudros before nightfall.”

We pursued the homeward journey, and suddenly surprised ourselves by emerging above a hill-top and looking down over a mile of undulating country upon the long silver sheet of water that was Mudros Harbour.  To us, so high up, its vast shipping—­even including the giant Olympic—­seemed a collection of toy steamers.  And all around the harbour were the white specks of toy tents.

“Our mighty campaign looks, I s’pose, even smaller and more toy-like to Poseidon, sitting on Samothrace,” mused Doe.  “What insects we are!  ’As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.’”

Just at that moment “Retreat” was blown in the camps below.  It was with the bugles as with the bells of a great city.  One took the lead in proclaiming its message; then another, and yet another joined in, till at last all corroborated the news.  And the trumpets and rifles of the French told the same story.