“But isn't it possible that there really is such an island?” persisted Peter. “The sea is a big place, you know.”
“Absolutely impossible,” said the geographer. “Why, the spot indicated by Purdy is right in the track of steamers going from England to Newfoundland. If you want to read about Hi-Brasil you must read old books, published before geography was an exact science.”
Though he knew it was useless Peter followed the advice given him and eagerly read every book he could find that had any bearing on the subject—Rubruquis, Hakluyt, Linschoten, and many others—and to his delight he found that his reading brought him nearer to his Sea Maiden. After an evening spent in imagination exploring the coast of Vinland with Leif Ericsson, or rounding North Cape with Othere, or groping blindly in the unknown Atlantic with Malacello, he almost invariably dreamed that he and the Sea Maiden were once more sailing together in the little Maeldune.
It was after reading, first in Longfellow and afterward in Hakluyt, about Othere's voyage to the Northern Seas, that Peter saw an advertisement of a holiday cruise through the Norwegian fiords to Spitzbergen. He booked a passage, saw the bleak, storm-harried point that Othere was the first to round, and, on his way home, saw the Sea Girl again. Just south of the Dogger Bank the tourist-steamer passed a disreputable-looking tramp steamer. Half of her plates were painted a crude red; others were brown with rust; the awning stanchions on her bridge were twisted and bent; she had a heavy list to starboard, and she was staggering southward under a heavy deck-cargo of timber. On the bridge, leaning against the tattered starboard-dodger, the Sea Maid stood and waved her hand to him. Peter eagerly sought out a ship's officer.
“Where's that steamer bound for?” he asked.
“Goodness knows!” was the answer. “South Wales, most likely, as she's carrying pit-props.”
Hope of seeing the Sea Girl in the flesh again returned, and Peter wasted the next few weeks vainly searching all the South Wales coal ports. He had given up the search, and was returning to his much-neglected business when the South Wales-London express stopped for a moment on the bridge over the Wye near Newport. Peter looked idly out of the window at the dirty river flowing sluggishly between banks of greasy mud. Then his heart leaped again. Lying embedded in the mud far below were the rotting remains of a derelict barge, and on her deck were some ragged children hauling lustily on a scrap of rope that they had fastened to one of the barge's bollards and singing what, no doubt, they supposed to be a chantey. Standing on the barge's rotting deck was the Sea Maid. This time she not only waved her hand but called to him, “We are bound for the Spanish Main.” Peter leaned far out of the window of the railway-carriage.
“Where can I find you?” he shouted.
“In Hi-Brasil,” was the answer, and the train moved on.
Peter was now convinced that the eminent geographer whom he had consulted as to the whereabouts of Hi-Brasil had not known what he was talking about. It must, he decided, be some little Cornish fishing village, too insignificant to be worth the great man's notice.