Stately lady, she walked the waters, swaying them, her breasts splendid in the sunshine. Her head was in the heavens, a stir of snow at her feet. She was mistress of the seas, and mother of them. And with what noble mirth she lorded it in this her nursery! The turbulent little folks swarmed to clutch her skirts as she swept by. She moved among them, their play-fellow and yet their sovereign lady: here a mocking bow, there a laughing curtsey; anon a stoop, a swift kiss, and she rose, an armful of blossom-babies smothering her. The boy's heart went out to her in a passion of worship. She was a tall Princess, stone-blind and beautiful, walking to her doom; and he a boy-knight bucketing across the moor on his pony to save her and the burthen she bore so preciously in her arms--her little son. And he _would_ save her. Nay, he _had_ saved her. He was so proud he could have shouted; he was so moved he could almost have wept. The lugger thumped through the seas, tugging at her tiller, eager as himself. She reminded him of the scuttling haste with which old Trumps, his pony, bustled along, head set for home; and he laughed merrily. The fuss and fury of the little thing contrasted so ludicrously with the majestic calm of the swan-lady sweeping towards him. The frigate was close on him now. As the lugger topped the ridges, Kit, peering beneath the boom, could see the black and yellow of the Nelson chequer on her sides. Clouds of canvas, tier on tier, towered above him. He could see the shine of her bows as she lifted, dripping. The water spurted from her foot in foaming cataracts as she plunged. He steered as though to cross her bows. When he heard the swish of the green waters cleaving before her keel, he put his helm hard down. "Hail them, Blob!" he screamed, and scrambling forward brought the lug-sail down with a rattle. "Boat ahoy_" a voice from the frigate "_who are you_?" Blob stood in the bows, one hand on the flapping jib. "Oi'm Blob Oad what killed Nabowlin Bownabaardie," he yelled. The frigate, standing stately on, swung up alongside. Kit, rushing to the side, fended her off, as she slid past, huge above him. "Heave to!" he screamed, bumping against the sliding side. "Heave to!" A deep voice above him spoke. Kit looked up. A man, leaning over the side, was watching him bump stern-wards with a sardonic grin. "Bye-bye," he murmured deeply. "My love to the little gurls." Was he mad? was he mocking? Kit thought he had never seen so striking a face. The man was a giant with moon-splendid eyes. There was a power about the face, the power of darkness. The sun never shone upon it--only the moon, the moon. But for her wan glimmer it was without light. Kit thought of a wild night at sea, the moon gleaming fitfully on savage waters. The moon, always the moon! "Despatches for Nelson!" screamed the boy--"for Nelson, Nelson, Nelson!"