Stephen handed him the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes.
―And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there.
Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. Dressing, undressing. Buck Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, said solemnly:
―He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord. Thus spake Zarathustra.
His plump body plunged.
―We’ll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the path and smiling at wild Irish.
Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon.
―The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.
―Good, Stephen said.
He walked along the upwardcurving path.
Liliata rutilantium. Turma circumdet. Jubilantium 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.