MOBY DICK went on his way, “emerging strong against the tide.” A Nantucket ship saw him as he blew, and her boats put out after him.
“Just get off a minute, my dear,” said he to the little mermaid whom he carried. She did so, and then, instead of swimming away from the boats, he put down his enormous head and went straight at them.
“The white whale!” cried the sailors; and they did not throw the harpoon, but went meekly back to the ship. They were bold enough, but they were afraid of the white whale, for Moby Dick had sunk two or three ships in his time and entirely reversed the whalers’ programme.
Moby Dick executed a huge frisk on the surface of the sea, flapped his tail on the water with a noise like thunder, and then dived down to rejoin the mermaid.
“All right, my dear,” he said, cheerfully.
“I’m so glad you are safe,” said the mermaid, patting him with her little hands.
On they went through the water, and the coast was soon in sight. It was growing dusk, and the lighthouse showed its red star over the sea. The mermaid was silent, and Moby Dick did not trouble her to talk.
Suddenly a beautiful woman appeared to them on the crest of a long rolling billow. She made no effort; she did not swim, but moved through the water by her will alone. She seemed a part of the sea, like a wave come alive.
“That is not a human being, surely,” said the mermaid, startled.
“It’s very like that—you know—that wooden thing—that he ran after,” said Moby Dick in a gigantic whisper, “only it’s alive.”