Even in the excitement of the battle Stern realized how very beautiful this woman was. Her color was adorable--rose-leaves and cream. Her eyes were shot full of light and life and the joy of living; her loosened hair, wavy and rich and brown, half hid the graceful curve of her neck as she leaned to watch, to help him. And strong determination seized him to master this great fish, to land it, to fling it at the woman's feet as his tribute and his trophy. He had, in the days of long ago, fished in the Adirondack wildernesses. He had fished for tarpon in the Gulf; he had cast the fly along the brooks of Maine and lured the small-mouthed bass with floating bait on many a lake and stream. He had even fished in a Rocky Mountain torrent, and out on the far Columbia, when failure to succeed meant hunger. But this experience was unique. Never had he fished all alone in the world with a loved woman who depended on his skill for her food, her life, her everything. Forgotten now the wounded arm, the crude and absurd implements; forgotten everything but just that sole, indomitable thought: "I've got to win!" Came now a lull in the struggles of the monster. Stern hauled in. Another rush, met by a paying-out, a gradual tautening of the line, a strong and steady pull. "He's tiring," exulted Stern. "Be ready when I bring him close!" Again the fish broke cover; again it dived; but now its strength was lessening fast. Allan hauled in. Now, far down in the clear depths, they could both see the darting, flickering shaft of white and green. "Up he comes now! Give it to him, hard!" As Stern brought him to the surface, Beatrice struck with the paddle--once, twice, with magnificent strength and judgment. Over the gunwale of the banca, in a sparkle of flying spray, silvery in the morning sun, the maskalonge gleamed. Excited and happy as a child, Beatrice clapped her hands. Stern seized the paddle as she let it fall. A moment later the huge fish, stunned and dying, lay in the bottom of the boat, its gills rising, falling in convulsive gasps, its body quivering, scales shining in the sunlight--a thing of wondrous beauty, a promise of the feast for two strong, healthy humans. Stern dried his brow on the back of his hand and drew a deep breath, for the morning was already warm and the labor had been hard. "Now," said he, and smiled, "now a nice little pile of dead wood on the beach, a curl of birch-bark and a handful of pine punk and grass--a touch of the flint and steel! Then _this_," and he pointed at the maskalonge, "broiled on a pointed stick, with a handful of checkerberries for dessert, and I think you and I will be about ready to begin work in earnest!" He knelt and kissed her--a kiss that she returned--and then, slowly, happily, and filled with the joy of comradeship, they drove their banca once more to the white and gleaming beach. CHAPTER IV THE GOLDEN AGE