ng in the skies a mysterious writing till, after a myriad
metamorphoses of symbol, it blazes, Alpha, a ruby and triangled sign
upon the forehead of Taurus.

Francis was reminding Stephen of years before when they had been at
school together in Conmee's time. He asked about Glaucon, Alcibiades,
Pisistratus. Where were they now? Neither knew. You have spoken of the
past and its phantoms, Stephen said. Why think of them? If I call them
into life across the waters of Lethe will not the poor ghosts troop to
my call? Who supposes it? I, Bous Stephanoumenos, bullockbefriending
bard, am lord and giver of their life. He encircled his gadding hair
with a coronal of vineleaves, smiling at Vincent. That answer and those
leaves, Vincent said to him, will adorn you more fitly when something
more, and greatly more, than a capful of light odes can call your genius
father. All who wish you well hope this for you. All desire to see
you bring forth the work you meditate, to acclaim you Stephaneforos. I
heartily wish you may not fail them. O no, Vincent Lenehan said, laying
a hand on the shoulder near him. Have no fear. He could not leave his
mother an orphan. The young man's face grew dark. All could see how hard
it was for him to be reminded of his promise and of his recent loss. He
would have withdrawn from the feast had not the noise of voices allayed
the smart. Madden had lost five drachmas on Sceptre for a whim of the
rider's name: Lenehan as much more. He told them of the race. The flag
fell and, huuh! off, scamper, the mare ran out freshly with 0. Madden
up. She was leading the field. All hearts were beating. Even Phyllis
could not contain herself. She waved her scarf and cried: Huzzah!
Sceptre wins! But in the straight on the run home when all were in close
order the dark horse Throwaway drew level, reached, outstripped her. All
was lost now. Phyllis was silent: her eyes were sad anemones. Juno, she
cried, I am undone. But her lover consoled her and brought her a bright
casket of gold in which lay some oval sugarplums which she partook. A
tear fell: one only. A whacking fine whip, said Lenehan, is W. Lane.
Four winners yesterday and three today. What rider is like him? Mount
him on the camel or the boisterous buffalo the victory in a hack canter
is still his. But let us bear it as was the ancient wont. Mercy on the
luckless! Poor Sceptre! he said with a light sigh. She is not the filly
that she was. Never, by this hand, shall we be