Brassid watched her glowing young face and her strong young arms, as they struck out, in a new wonder. He had not yet solved the lovely Sea-Lady. She went on with dilated nostrils: “Say, Brassid, that makes me _want_ to love you. An ancestor like that! Oh, it beats the whaler! That’s why I speak so often of him. It needed courage to be a whaler. Brassid, you never were so near winning me—isn’t that what you men call it?—as right now. Go on, Brassid, about your Indian-fighter!” “My grandfather probably would have won you,” sighed Brassid. “No; you. You are like him. I knew it from the first. Why didn’t you tell me that at first? You would do as he did—if there were Indians.” “And what would you do?” “As your grandfather did, Brassid—if there were Indians.” He retreated a little from her. “Maybe I do _love love_ a little, Brassid dear; but I _adore_ the courage that dies without weakening—rather than weaken. I can’t help it. It was born in me. I wouldn’t do it. And if your grandfather had called for help, I should have hated him—and you,” she laughed. And, after a silence, she said again, as if that was what she had been thinking about: “Brassid, I love courage more than love.” And again: “Brassid, your name _is_ Courage.” VI HER ANCESTORS WORE SCALES “For immediate evidence of my pusillanimity,” laughed Brassid, “let us return. We have never been half so far as this. And while you are a mermaiden, I am only a walrus.” “_Must_ we go back?” “No,” laughed Brassid. “Then let us go on and on and on forever! Brassid, I am mad to-day. That about the Indian-fighter did it. And if you knew how close—close—you are—why—come! Out there where it sparkles! It fascinates—calls to me. Oh, dear Brassid, perhaps my ancestors _did_ wear scales! Come! Out there ask for—anything!” She gave him, there in the water, his first caress—only a touch, after all. Brassid’s tongue was loosed. He talked on almost in strophes. And she answered presently: “Brassid dear, that sounds like the big love. I wouldn’t have any other—if I had to have it at all. I wish I did love you. Oh, not so much for your sake as mine! I begin to feel, to see, to hear, what it is. Brassid, some day I shall demand it.” “And you shall have it.” “But not—now—Brassid dear! Not—to-day! _Please!_” “Look here,” said he, in his ferocity, “you do love me—and you are going to marry me!” “No, no, no! Brassid, really, I don’t love you. Not a bit—yet. It is courage—courage. But out here—to-day—Brassid, I like you—courage or no courage, I’ll confess that much—I like you a lot.” Then, presently, “Brassid, do you really think I love you?” He nodded. “Why don’t you speak? It is very impolite to nod a reply to such an important—question. I can’t—marry—you—away—out—here.” They faced each other, and knew that they were out of breath. “Out there is a bar. I have been watching it. We can rest there.”