The words were unknown to Maclaren, but he listened and thought he understood.
“We have fed our sea for a thousand years And she calls us, still unfed,
Though there’s never a wave of all her waves But marks our English dead:
We have strawed our best to the weed’s unrest, To the shark and the sheering gull,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha’ paid it in full!—”
When Ryerson had finished, Maclaren stood up, folded his hands and bowed. “Sensei,” he said, “give me your blessing.”
“What?” The other man leaned back into shadows, and now he was again entirely old. You could scarcely hear him under the waves outside. “You’ve naught to thank me for, lad.”
“No, you gave me much,” said Maclaren. “You have told me why men go, and it isn’t for nothing. It is because they are men.”