He heard her soft,
infant-like laughter.
To-night her beckoning was like a breeze to a leaf that is ready to
fall. Caius ceased to think; he only acted. He threw his cap and coat
and boots on the shore. The sea-child, gazing in surprise, began to
recede quickly. Caius ran into the water; he projected himself toward
the mermaid, and swam with all the speed of which he was capable.
The salt in his eyes at first obscured his vision. When he could look
about, the sea-child had gone out of the track of the moonlight, and,
taking advantage of the current, was moving rapidly out to sea.
He, too, swam with the current. He saw her curly head dark as a dog's in
the water; her face was turned from him, and there was evident movement
in her body. For the first time he thought he perceived that she was
swimming with arms and feet as a woman must swim.
As for Caius, he made all the effort that in him lay, and as she receded
past the line of the island right out into the moonlit sea, he swam
madly after, reckless of the fact that his swimming power gave him no
assurance of being able to return, reckless of everything except the one
welcome fact that he was gaining on the sea-child. A fear oppressed him
that perhaps this apparent effort of hers and her slow motion were only
a ruse to lead him on--that at any moment she might dart from him or
sink into her familiar depths.
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