There followed some days of wandering together, through the little grey town, or over the green headland to a country beyond of pine trees and Druid stones, or, in the evening light, along the sands. They found a sailboat, with an old, hale boatman, for hire, and they went out in this boat. Sometimes the wind carried them along, swift as a leaf; sometimes they went as in a sea-revery, so dreamily. The boatman knew all the legends of the sea; he told them stories of the King of Ys and the false Ahés, and then he talked of the Pardons of his youth. Sometimes they skirted the coast, sometimes they went so far out that the land was but an eastward-lying shadow. The next day, perhaps, they wandered inland, over the heath among dolmens and menhirs, or, seated on old wreckage upon the sands, the dark blue sea before them, now they talked and now they kept company with silence. They talked little rather than much. The place was taciturn, and her mood made for quiet. It was not until the fourth day that he told her for what he had come. "But you know for what I came." "Yes, I know." "If you could--" "I want," said Hagar, "more time. Will you let it all rest for a little longer? I don't think I could tell you truly to-day." "As long as you wish," he said, "if only, in the end--" Two days after this they went out in the afternoon in the boat. It had been a warm day, with murk in the air. At the little landing-place Fay, after a glance at the dim, hot arch of the sky, asked the boatman if bad weather might be brewing. But the Breton was positive. "Nothing to-day--nothing to-day! To-morrow, perhaps, m'sieu." They went sailing far out, until the land sunk from sight. An hour or two passed, pleasantly, pleasantly. Then suddenly the wind, where they were, dropped like a stone. They lay for an hour with flapping sail and watched the blue sky grow pallid and then darken. A puff of wind, hot and heavy, lifted the hair from their brows. It increased; the sky darkened yet more; with an appalling might and swiftness the worst storm of the half-year burst upon them. The wind blew a hurricane; the sea rose; suddenly the mast went. Fay and the Breton battled with the wreckage, cut it loose--the boat righted. But she had shipped water and her timbers were straining and creaking. The wind was whipping her away to the open sea, and the waves, continually mounting, battered her side. There was a perceptible list. Night was oncoming, and the fury above increasing. Hagar braided her long hair that the wind had loosened from its fastening. "We are in danger," she said to Fay. "Yes. Can you swim?" "Yes. But there would be no long swimming in this sea."