ose, but four or five minutes
later, the boat having been carried onward into fleeter water by the
swift current that was one of the terrors of the Sunk Rocks, it touched
bottom, dragged a little, and held fast.

Morris gave a sigh of relief, for that blind journey among unknown
dangers was neither safe nor pleasant. Now, at least, in this quiet
weather he could lie where he was till light came, praying that a wind
might not come first. Already the cold November dawn was breaking in
the east; he was able to see the reflection of it upon the fog, and the
surface of the water, black and oily-looking, became visible as it swept
past the sides of his boat. Now, too, he was sure that the rocks must
be close at hand, for he could hear the running tide distinctly as it
washed against them and through the dense growth of seaweed that clung
to their crests and ridges.

Presently, too, he heard something else, which at first caused him to
rub his eyes in the belief that he must have fallen asleep and dreamt;
nothing less, indeed, than the sound of a woman's voice. He began to
reason with himself. What was there strange in this? He was told, or
had inferred, that a woman had been left upon a ship. Doubtless this
was she, upon some rock or raft, perhaps. Only then she would have been
crying for help, and this voice was singing, and in a strange tongue,
more sweetly than he had heard woman sing before.

It was incredible, it was impossible. What woman would sing in a winter
daybreak upon the Sunk Rocks--sing like the siren of old fable? Yet,
there, quite close to him, over the quiet sea rose the song, strong,
clear, and thrilling. Once it ceased, then began again in a deeper,
more triumphant note, such as a Valkyrie might have sung as she led some
Norn-doomed host to their last battle.

Morris sat and listened with parted lips and eyes staring at the fleecy
mist. He did not move or call out, because he was certain that he must
be the victim of some hallucination, bred of fog, or of fatigue, or of
cold; and, as it was very strange and moving, he had no desire to break
in upon its charm.

So there he sat while the triumphant, splendid song rolled and thrilled
above him, and by degrees the grey light of morning grew to right and
left. To right and left it grew, but, strangely enough, although he
never noted it at the time, he and his boat lay steeped in shadow. Then
of a sudden there was a change.

A puff of wind from the north