My fear of the hook tearing out proved groundless, but he was trying hard to throw it, and once the fish leaped clear of the water, shaking himself and shining, splendid and immense. Soon Sophia began to force him in. Whenever he yielded line, she took and held it, her face dripping with sweat and splashings, and its bound-and-determined look gave me great joy. Before long she hauled him into the low surf where he flopped and threshed in a final frenzy, then to the water's edge. There he lay, all blue and silver, a vivid, new-found sixty-pound inmate of the ocean, brought up from the dark depths to shine in the shallows at our feet.
But he was not yet in hand. A ridge of sand prevented Sophia from sliding him up the beach. Then my eyes bulged to see the hook hanging, all but torn loose and its barb exposed, at the corner of his mouth. One flop could easily dislodge the point; then instantly he would feel the thrill of freedom and surge back to sea.
"Be careful," I told her.
She nodded, and carefully shortened her line to about a yard. Then she waited for the next high wave—the seventh, as it is called, although truly such waves do not come at any regular sequence. It rolled lightly in and lifted the fish to the top of the ridge of sand. At the same instant she drew him gently over. Then I must holler, for a second later she had him by the gill, dragging him clean up the beach.
Before she looked twice at her prize, she turned her eyes on me. They were snapping with excitement and triumph, and for a few seconds I thought she might give me a prize, long to remember, lovely to keep. But if she had an impulse to do so, she repressed it. Perhaps the gulf between her station and mine was too wide for her to make the brief crossing, regardless of any passing closeness between her and me. Quite possibly the interdiction was bred in her bone.
In due course I had bent a 3-ply line on the fish's gills and secured him to the snag in shallow water. Meanwhile I had reached a stage of happiness, the exact like of which I had never known, and as nearly perfect as some of the cloudless happiness of my childhood. There was no enchantment about it: it was down to earth as Sophia's bare toes; it rose from the combination of hers and my victory, the bright sun, the warm sand, the noble arch of the sky over us and the dark blue sea beside us, and being with her instead of away from her, both of us alive. Whether she experienced anything like its equal, I did not know. I only knew that her face shone like a child's.
"Let me see your hands," I told her with a doctorlike firmness.
She held them out to me, the beautifully molded hands of the high-born. On taking them, I found them more strong and more adroit than I had guessed at first, and not as badly burned as I feared. Still, they could use a little unguent that I carried in my haversack for anointing my leg when it stiffened on long walks. I took a long time for its application, so pleasant their touch against mine.
"I'll carry your fish home for you when the time comes," I told her.
"I'm afraid it's come already." A quite real shadow crept across her face.
"But I'd love to show him to Papa," she went on when I kept silent. "I think it will knock him over—just once. But you'll have to tell him I caught him. or he won't believe I didn't buy him from some trawler."
"All right."
"He'll believe you and treat you politely. He's far from a fool. Dick may pretend he doesn't believe you, but he'll be green with jealousy."
"Dick?"
"My half brother."
Her expression changed, and I saw something in her eyes I could hardly believe.
"You hate him, don't you?"
"I dare say I do. I don't like the idea of it, but can't seem to stop. Papa admires him much more than he does me, so part of it may be jealousy."
She did not expect a reply. I was thinking how many tilings I had found out about her without knowing her name or gaining any real insight into her nature. It was like one of those old-fashioned books with metal covers, closed by lock and key.
"My brother is a bastard," she went on. "I'm not just calling him a name. He's a real one. But his mother was a lady."
I nodded.
"You've never hated anyone, have you?"
"I've never had any reason to. We've a friendship crew on the Vindictive."
She looked startled. "That sounds more like a man-of-war than a merchantman."
"I reckon it does. The word's come to mean 'vengeful.' But Cap'n says it came from vindicate and should mean 'ready to defend her honor and deal retribution to her enemies.' "
"I doubt if there's much difference. Homer, we live three miles from here, just outside of Notabile, and that's seven miles from Valletta. Won't the fish be a big load?"
"I could carry him thirty miles—after I've had my lunch. And I've got enough for us both."
"You have!" She spoke incredulously and looked delighted at so slight a matter.
"Look here." I brought out the good bread of the country, with plenty of tasty crust, cheese made from goat's milk, small sweet oranges for which Malta was famous, and a flask of the pale, delicious wine of Marsala. Moreover, I had thought to bring a napkin for the spread, not from any daintiness, but because I was used to a tidy home at sea and objected to sand in my victuals.
"Homer, you've shown United States of America in a new light," she told me, greatly elated.
We ate bread and cheese, sucked oranges, and took turns at the bottle. "Old Farmer George in his castle never fared better," she remarked, rubbing her stomach.
"Isn't that a little disrespectful to His Majesty?" I asked.
"I think he likes to be called Farmer George. Anyway, Papa doesn't consider any Hanover his equal." At once she was contrite. "I shouldn't have said that. It isn't true either—exactly. As the king, he's Papa's liege lord. Papa himself would never dream of calling him anything but the king. And I've got to go home now."
I fixed a wooden buffer on my shoulder so I could sling the two fish on my back. They were cold and slimy, but no great load; and Sophia's incredulous glances at her catch, out of eyes childishly proud, made the task pleasant. The whole household would feast tonight, she said, and her father would gorge on the "hump"—the oily piece behind the head that I had told her was the most choice in any high-backed fish. I wondered how big her "household" was, but decided not to ask.
She soon fell quiet, and I was not inclined to disturb her thoughts. Meanwhile we walked hand in hand, and although I expected her soon to become ill-at-ease with this slight intimacy, she made no move to break it off, and indeed seemed happy in it. Her small hand relaxed more and more in my big one, and she did not mind the sweat.
We came to the mouth of a creek in a distant view of a fishing village. A little farther on was a grove of carob trees, their greenery so dark that on cloudy days it looked black. Here she slipped her hand out of mine, stopped, and faced me. She had come to some sort of decision, and there was no doubting her earnestness in it.
"I left my horse in that village," she told me slowly, her eyes on mine. "So leave me here and give my fish to some people who'll make good use of it."
I believe I kept my countenance, and when I spoke, my voice gave nothing away. But what I said seemed to have no meat.
"Then you don't want to show it to your father?"
"I want to, but I won't."
"You don't want him to see me? Isn't that it?"
"I don't want Dick to see you either."
"You're not ashamed of being with me. That doesn't fit in with you. So there must be a better reason."