awaited them. The old man's description of her as a
hag had not been far wrong. She, was as diminutive and weakened as he
was ponderous and heavy. She was acid. Her skin was like a pickled
apple's; her expression sour, her voice sharp.

"Hoy there, you old hypocrite!" she hailed when they came in earshot.
"So this is the way you lose a day! Who's the hussy with you?"

The deacon nosed the old and evil-smelling scow into the bank. His
eyes rolled piously.

"The great Pantheus sent her. He said--"

* * * * *

The old woman came closer and inspected Sira, who endured her gaze
calmly. That look was like the bite of acid that reveals the structure
of crystal in metals.

"Why, she's a lady!" she exclaimed then. "Not fittin' to be on the
same canal with you! Come in, my dear. You must be nearly dead!"

She conducted Sira into the hut, which was far neater and cleaner than
its exterior suggested.

"A lady!" she repeated. "In that heat! Young woman, what made you do
it? Look at those arms--near burnt! Let me take off that old sack. But
wait!"

She tip-toed to the door, threw back the faded curtain sharply. The
deacon, too surprised to move, was standing there in the attitude of
one who seeks to see and hear at the same time. He lingered long
enough to receive two resounding slaps before fleeing to his boat,
followed by a string of curdling remarks.

Back inside, she proceeded to anoint Sira's body, exclaiming her
pleasure at its perfection. The oil smelled fishy, but it was
soothing, and it was not long before the claimant to the throne of
Mars was deep in restful slumber.

Late that afternoon the deacon returned and hung his nets up to dry.
He was dour, his fever having left him. But he had a strange story to
impart.

"I think that girl I picked up is the Princess Sira," he told the old
woman. "On the fish buyer's barge, in the teletabloid machine, I saw
the forecast of her wedding to Scar Balta. And I'll swear it's the
same girl!"

"And why," queried his wife, "would she be swimming in the middle of
the canal if she was getting ready to marry Scar Balta?"

"That's just it!" the deacon exclaimed, and his eyes began to roll
again. "They say it's not a love match! Oh, not in the teletabloid!
They wouldn't dare hint such a thing. But the men on the barge. They
say there's a rumor that she ran away. And she looks like the girl I
picked up, though I thought--"

"Never mind what yo