Had Morris wished to draw the picture of a Viking's daughter guiding her father's ship into the fray, there, down to the red cloak, bare feet, and flying tresses, stood its perfect model.
The wild scene gripped his heart.

Whoever saw the like of it?
This girl who sang in the teeth of death, the desolate grey face of ocean, the brown and hungry rocks, the huge, abandoned ship, and over all the angry rays of a winter sunrise.
Thus, out of the darkness of the winter night, out of the bewildering white mists of the morning, did this woman arise upon his sight, this strange new star begin to shine upon his life and direct his destiny.
At the moment that he saw her she seemed to see him.

At any rate, she ceased her ringing, defiant song, and, leaning over the netting rail, stared downwards.
Morris began to haul at his anchor; but, though he was a strong man, at first he could not lift it.

Just as he was thinking of slipping the cable, however, the little flukes came loose from the sand or weeds in which they were embedded, and with toil and trouble he got it shipped.
Then he took a pair of sculls and rowed until he was nearly under the prow of the Trondhjem.

It was he, too, who spoke first.
"You must come to me," he called.
"Yes," the woman answered, leaning over the rail; "I will come, but how?
Shall I jump into the water ?" "No," he said, "it is too dangerous.