had tears in their eyes. It was presumable that neither had ever sat with his arm around Peggy's waist as he rode in the low-backed car.
By reading, his mind was antique, and, by sympathy, adventurous. He was stocked to the brim with Bohn's translations from the heroically geniused Greeks and Romans. Old Homer chanted to him of the great human demigods; old Xenophon told him of wily commanders; Virgil, of a city founded in a strange land far from the walls of the fathers. He was crammed with Oliver and Roland and the peers of France; Roucesvalles, and the deed that was done there; the sublime deaths in the forefront of the battle; old Turpin, the life pouring from his side, giving extreme unction to the dying; Roland and Durandal and the wail of the Oliphans that reached Charlemagne and called him back. He was with Siegfried through the smoke of the burning mountain. He forged many an irresistible sword on his mental anvil. Bayard, who feared none
