That did not matter; he had given his word.

In the physical exaltation of the hour the best of him was uppermost.

Like the angels, who walk in heavenly paths, he had no desire to be a thing that could stoop from moral rectitude.

The knowledge that his old love of the sea was his companion only enhanced the strength of his vow, only made all that the strength of vows mean more dear to him; and the moonlit shore was more beautiful, and life, each moment that he was then living, more absolutely good.
So they went on, and he did not try to think where the sea-maid had come from, or whether the gray flapping dress and the girlish step were but the phantom guise that she could don for the hour, or whether, if he should turn and pursue her, she would drop from her upright height into the scaly folds that he had once seen, and plunge into the waves, or whether _that_ had been the masquerade, and she a true woman of the land.

He did not know or care.