Heroism is always beautiful, whether it spring from love of country or love of man. The dance frock had vanished, shed like the sheath of a chrysalis when the moth is born. A silver moon-goddess stood at the prow. She stooped, once, twice--I thought to discard her shoes. Then, as Macalister came stumbling forward, Nanette dived almost soundlessly into the still blue sea. And Nanette could swim like a seal. Macalister craned over the side. For one moment I think he contemplated following. Then the bobbed head came up two lengths away. Behind the swimmer, on a tow-line of beads, floated a flat, square portfolio. I glanced once at O’Shea--and that man of action was stricken to stone. Fists clenched, he stood, watching a girl of eighteen doing the work he had come to do--and doing it for _him_. Macalister was hauling in his anchor. The motor started with a roar. Then Nanette saw us. She was halfway to the shore. “Please throw one of the rugs on the steps,” came gaspingly. “And go away! Start the car up!” When, a few minutes later, a very wet Nanette, wrapped in a light top coat, confronted O’Shea, I don’t know quite what happened. “There are your photographs,” I heard her say. “If I never see you again, at least think I was not such a fool as you supposed.” With all her dear bravado, she could not still the trembling of her voice. I saw O’Shea’s pale face, and turned aside. That meeting was one I can never forget. Yet the details will always be hazy. Macalister was in the picture somewhere. I think I knocked him down. I don’t remember why. But I fancy it was not because of any attempt to recover the portfolio but because he grossly misunderstood the situation. Then, I recall, O’Shea stooped, lifted Nanette, and walked up the sloping cobbled street under a smiling moon. He had suffered as only the few can suffer, to make her forget him. His sacrifice had been rejected by the Great Goddess. Once, Nanette peeped up at him swiftly. I saw her eyes. Then she hid her face against his shoulder. I think Nanette was crying. But I know Nanette was happy. CHAPTER XIII. THE GRASS ORPHAN “Public men should never indulge in private correspondence,” said O’Shea. “Such indiscretions sometimes lead to war. I understand that all Napoleon’s social engagements were made by proxy.” He turned toward me, his arm resting on the rail of the balcony. There were times when O’Shea looked extraordinarily handsome. To-day, I thought he appeared almost haggard. In his spruce white suit with Madeiran sunlight making play in the waves of his hair, he had all that curious atmosphere of romance that made him attractive to women and unpopular with men who knew no better. But his eyes were tragically tired. I saw him glance at a square portfolio that lay upon the table in the shadows of my room.