does it mean, Shane?"

"You're beaten, Granya."

"Are we prisoners?"

"No, Miss O'Malley, just you can't land. And I'm very distressed to tell
you.... You may not land anywhere, any time, in her Majesty's
dominions."

"That doesn't shut out Mr. Campbell, does it?"

"I've no orders against him, Miss O'Malley, barring his landing his
cargo or you...."

She laid her hand on Shane's arm....

"I'm sorry, Shane.... I'm very sorry, my dear--dear friend.... You were
so good.... There are few--would have sacrificed their time and
profession, and everything--to help a woman on a wild-goose ideal!--like
mine was.... So please forgive me!"

"There's nothing to forgive, Granya...."

"I want to do this ..." she leaned forward and kissed him.... The
lieutenant turned away. "And now good-by."

"Why good-by? I'm not going ashore. I'll stick."

"Dear Shane, you would." She caught his hand, pressed, dropped it. Her
voice rang out: "But I'm going ashore...." She had swung over the
taffrail and dropped into the water with the soft splash of a fish....

"My God ...!" Shane swore with rage. "Wait. I'll get her. Will you stand
by with your boat?"

"Right-o!" Flannagan answered cheerily.

Shane kicked off his shoes, slipped out of his coat.... "This damned
woman!" he thought as he dropped astern, came out, began to cast for
direction like an otter-hound.... He heard her soft rhythmical strokes
ahead.... He tore after her ... caught up ... reached her shoulder....

"Come back, Granya!"

"No, Shane."

He had decided, once he reached her, to turn her back by force, but the
strange gentle voice restrained him. All this matter of Ireland, all
this expedition of opera bouffe, took on again a strange dimension when
she spoke.... All the time he had been foolish, he knew, and, worse,
looked like a fool, but some strange magic of her voice made it seem
natural ... the naive brave gestures.... One levitated above common
ground.... Even this moon-madness did not seem trivial and a thing for
laughter.... A dignity of ancient stories was on it.... The blue Irish
hills, soft as down, the little moon, and the tide hurrying out of the
lough to the great Atlantic.... A wrench of the will and he gripped her
shoulder:

"Shane, please don't!"

"You're coming back, Granya."

"I'm not, Shane, and please don't hold me. I'm getting weak."

"You'll never make it, Granya. And if you did, where would you go on the
Donegal hills?"

"I don't