seemed to catch the fog and roll it up
like a curtain, so that instantly all the sea became visible, broken
here and there by round-headed, weed-draped rocks. Out of the east also
poured a flood of light from the huge ball of the rising sun, and now it
was that Morris learned why the gloom had been so thick about him, for
his boat lay anchored full in the shadow of the lost ship Trondhjem.
There, not thirty yards away, rose her great prow; the cutwater, which
stood up almost clear, showing that she had forced herself on to a
ridge of rock. There, too, poised at the extreme point of the sloping
forecastle, and supporting herself with one hand by a wire rope that ran
thence to the foremast, was the woman to whose siren-like song he had
been listening.

At that distance he could see little of her face; but the new-wakened
wind blew the long dark hair about her head, while round her, falling
almost to her naked feet, was wrapped a full red cloak. Had Morris
wished to draw the picture of a Viking's daughter guiding her father's
ship into the fray, there, down to the red cloak, bare feet, and flying
tresses, stood its perfect model.

The wild scene gripped his heart. Whoever saw the like of it? This girl
who sang in the teeth of death, the desolate grey face of ocean, the
brown and hungry rocks, the huge, abandoned ship, and over all the angry
rays of a winter sunrise.

Thus, out of the darkness of the winter night, out of the bewildering
white mists of the morning, did this woman arise upon his sight, this
strange new star begin to shine upon his life and direct his destiny.

At the moment that he saw her she seemed to see him. At any rate, she
ceased her ringing, defiant song, and, leaning over the netting rail,
stared downwards.

Morris began to haul at his anchor; but, though he was a strong man,
at first he could not lift it. Just as he was thinking of slipping the
cable, however, the little flukes came loose from the sand or weeds in
which they were embedded, and with toil and trouble he got it shipped.
Then he took a pair of sculls and rowed until he was nearly under the
prow of the Trondhjem. It was he, too, who spoke first.

"You must come to me," he called.

"Yes," the woman answered, leaning over the rail; "I will come, but how?
Shall I jump into the water?"

"No," he said, "it is too dangerous. You might strike against a rock or
be taken by the current. The companion ladder seems to be down on the
starbo