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.