"Heffens...!" rumbled Heldstrom, in a voice so like that to which she had just been listening that Hermione's pulse raced off afresh. "Fere you been? You look like a yoong br'ride!" Hermione dropped the long lashes over her tell-tale eyes. "I ... I have been rowing around in the fog...." She tried to slip past him and gain the companionway, but his big bulk was planted directly in her course. "R'rowing ar'round in der fog ... r'rowing ar'round in der fog..." he repeated, slowly. He shook his massive head and the deep-lined face was flooded with anxiety. The clear blue eyes bored like gimlets into hers. "Hermione ... Hermione ... my little ger'rl..." the big voice was very tender. "You did not get dose eyes nor dose cheeks from der kiss of der fog! Do you tell me that you haf been r'rowing ar'round in der fog ... _alone_?" Hermione hung her pretty head. The colour on her cheeks deepened. "No, Uncle Chris ... I was not alone. I will tell you all about it ... but not now. Let me pass, please." There was an imperious note in the last words which brooked no denial. Heldstrom moved aside without a word. Hermione walked to the companionway and went below, while Heldstrom stared after her. His eyes were lit with the blue flame of the sun on an iceberg and his forehead was ominous as a storm-cloud. He glanced quickly about to see that no one was lurking near, then turned with a fierce Norse oath, and shook his head in the direction of the _Daffodil_. "Ah, I t'ink I understand! It's that Pilot-vish! Ven I saw his yellow eyes blinking at me from der sea I knew dere vas no goot behind dem! It vas like ... like ... anodder face ... I vonce knew ... to my gr'rief!" For a moment he stood stiff and silent, staring in the direction of the _Daffodil_. He cursed again. Suddenly he raised his voice and hailed the quartermaster. "Der gig at der gan'vay...!" said he. The order was quickly executed. Heldstrom got into the boat and gave the order to "give way." The fog was thick as ever, and, at the end of a few moments, he commanded--"Oars." The boat glided silently through the still water. Heldstrom turned his massive head slightly to one side and listened intently. On the starboard bow there came the sound of voices. All at once he heard the somewhat peculiar remark, in Danish, which is to say, Norwegian, although a Dane would put it the other way about. "Yes. Two days in every month you may get drunk. Between these periods, not a drop...." "Gif way, poort...!" growled Heldstrom.