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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.
This was the call of life to his soul not the dull gross voice of the world of duties and despair, not the inhuman voice that had called him to the pale service of the altar. An instant of wild flight had delivered him and the cry of triumph which his lips withheld cleft his brain. Stephaneforos!
Hello, Stephanos! Here comes The Dedalus! Ao!... Eh, give it over, Dwyer, I'm telling you, or I'll give you a stuff in the kisser for yourself... Ao! Good man, Towser! Duck him! Come along, Dedalus! Bous Stephanoumenos! Bous Stephaneforos! Duck him! Guzzle him now, Towser! Help! Help!... Ao! He recognized their speech collectively before he distinguished their faces.
It was a pain to see them, and a sword-like pain to see the signs of adolescence that made repellent their pitiable nakedness. Perhaps they had taken refuge in number and noise from the secret dread in their souls. But he, apart from them and in silence, remembered in what dread he stood of the mystery of his own body. Stephanos Dedalos! Bous Stephanoumenos! Bous Stephaneforos!
An ecstasy of flight made radiant his eyes and wild his breath and tremulous and wild and radiant his windswept limbs. One! Two!... Look out! Oh, Cripes, I'm drownded! One! Two! Three and away! The next! The next! One!... UK! Stephaneforos! His throat ached with a desire to cry aloud, the cry of a hawk or eagle on high, to cry piercingly of his deliverance to the winds.
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