“That is the song that Orpheus sang to the Argo when she lay on the stocks and all the strength of the heroes could not launch her. Then Orpheus struck his lyre and sang of the open sea and all the wonders that are beyond the farthest horizon, till the Argo so yearned to be afloat with a fair wind behind her that she spread her sails of her own accord and glided down the beach into the water.”
“I hadn't heard about it,” said Peter. The story was so fantastically impossible that he supposed that the girl was chaffing him.
“You are young, surely, to handle a boat by yourself,” he said. “Don't think me rude. How old are you?”
“As old as the sea, and a little older than the hills.”
Now Peter was sure that the girl was chaffing him.
Neither spoke again. Occasionally the girl looked at him and smiled, and her smile was the most beautiful thing that Peter had ever known. Toward evening they turned and sailed back, right in the golden path of the sinking sun. Slowly the old town of Falmouth took shape; the houses became distinct, then the people on the quay. Peter sighed because he was coming back to the shore again, and because for the first time in his life he had tasted absolute happiness.
Close to the quay the girl threw the boat up in the wind, ran forward and lowered the head-sails, and then ran back to the tiller. The Maeldune came gently up to the landing-stage. Peter jumped ashore and turned, expecting that the girl would follow, but she pushed off and began to hoist the head-sails again.
“May I—may I see you again?” said Peter, as the gap widened between the boat and the shore.
The Sea Maid laughed.
“If you come to Hi-Brasil,” she said.