"If you won't be persuaded," she said, "then good--"
"No," he broke in quickly. "That's bad luck. We shall be all right."
"Good luck, then," returned his friend, and turned away into the night.
Banneker, with one foot in the boat, gave a little shove and caught up
his oars. An unseen hand of indeterminable might grasped the keel and
moved them quietly, evenly, outward and forward, puppets given into the
custody of the unregarding powers. Oars poised and ready, Ban sat with
his back toward his passenger, facing watchfully downstream.
Leaning back into the curve of the bow, Io gave herself up to the
pulsing sweep of the night. Far, far above her stirred a cosmic tumult.
The air might have been filled with vast wings, invisible and incessant
in the night of wonders. The moon plunged headlong through the clouds,
now submerged, now free, like a strong swimmer amidst surf. She moved to
the music of a tremendous, trumpeting note, the voice of the unleashed
Spring, male and mighty, exulting in his power, while beneath, the
responsive, desirous earth thrilled and trembled and was glad.
The boat, a tiny speck on the surface of chaos, darted and checked and
swerved lightly at the imperious bidding of unguessed forces, reaching
up from the depths to pluck at it in elfish sportiveness.
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