But none came near her, and she was
content.

The abrupt tropical dawn found her in mid-canal, half-way to Tarog.
She had no intention of swimming all the way to the capital city, to
be fished ignominiously out of the canal by the police. She was in
need, not only of clothing, but of clothing that would disguise her.
Her coral pink body near the surface of the water would attract
attention for considerable distance, and would lead to unwelcome
inquiries.

She was glad when she saw a fishing scow anchored in the current ahead
of her. The man who owned it had his back to her, fishing
down-current. She approached the boat silently and worked her way
around it by holding to the gunwale.

Sira now saw that the fisherman was old, gnarled and sunburned so dark
that he was almost black, despite the dilapidated and dirty pith
helmet he was wearing. His lumpish face was deeply seamed and
wrinkled. His sunken mouth told of missing teeth, and his long,
unkempt hair was bleached to a dirty gray.

"Have you an old coat you can lend me?" Sira asked, swimming into
view.

The rheumy eyes rolled, settled on the water nymph. The old man showed
no surprise, but pious disgust. His eyes rolled up, and in a cracked
voice intoned:

"Wicked, wicked! O great Pantheus, thy temptations are great--thy
visions tormenting. In my old age must I ever and ever live over--"

"Foolish old man!" Sira snapped. "I'm not a vision!" She dragged down
an old sack that hung over the gunwale, washed it, and tearing holes
in the rotten fabric for her arms and head, slipped it on. It was a
large sack, coming to her knees; satisfied, she climbed aboard, where
she spread her black hair to dry.

"Not a vision?" the old man quavered. "Then thou art reality, come to
gladden my old age--nay--to return youth to me! In my hut there is an
old hag. She shall go--"

* * * * *

Sira did not answer. She was neither disgusted nor amused by the dark
torrent that stirred in this decrepit old fisherman. She saw only that
he had pulled in his nets and was bowing his long arms to the oars,
pulling for shore.

It took about two hours before they reached the fisherman's hut, a
nondescript, low-ceilinged shelter of logs, driftwood and untarnished
metal plates off some wreck. Several times they were hailed by other
fishermen, who addressed the old man as "Deacon" and asked jocularly
about what kind of a fish he had there.

The deacon's wife