'They find no fault with me,' he said. 'I suppose they are as fallible
as I, and so don't judge,' he added, as he waded thigh-deep into the
water, thrusting it to hear the mock-angry remonstrance.
'Once more,' he said, and he took the sea in his arms. He swam very
quietly. The water buoyed him up, holding him closely clasped. He swam
towards the white rocks of the headlands; they rose before him like
beautiful buttressed gates, so glistening that he half expected to see
fantail pigeons puffing like white irises in the niches, and white
peacocks with dark green feet stepping down the terraces, trailing a
sheen of silver.
'Helena is right,' he said to himself as he swam, scarcely swimming, but
moving upon the bosom of the tide; 'she is right, it is all enchanted. I
have got into her magic at last. Let us see what it is like.' He determined to visit again his little bay. He swam carefully round the
terraces, whose pale shadows through the swift-spinning emerald facets
of the water seemed merest fancy. Siegmund touched them with his foot;
they were hard, cold, dangerous. He swam carefully. As he made for the
archway, the shadows of the headland chilled the water. There under
water, clamouring in a throng at the base of the submerged walls, were
sea-women with dark locks, and young sea-girls, with soft hair, vividly
green, striving to climb up out of the darkness into the morning, their
hair swirling in abandon. Siegmund was half afraid of their
frantic efforts.
But the tide carried him swiftly through the high gate into the porch.
There was exultance in this sweeping entry. The skin-white, full-fleshed
walls of the archway were dappled with green lights that danced in and
out among themselves. Siegmund was carried along in an invisible
chariot, beneath the jewel-stained walls. The tide swerved, threw him as
he swam against the inward-curving white rock; his elbow met the rock,
and he was sick with pain. He held his breath, trying to get back the
joy and magic. He could not believe that the lovely, smooth side of the
rock, fair as his own side with its ripple of muscles, could have hurt
him thus. He let the water carry him till he might climb out on to the
shingle. There he sat upon a warm boulder, and twisted to look at his
arm. The skin was grazed, not very badly, merely a ragged scarlet patch
no bigger than a carnation petal. The bruise, however, was painful,
especially when, a minute or two later, he bent his arm.