A poor oarsman may beat a fair swimmer, and she had the start of me.

Steadily out to sea she rowed, and I toiled behind.

If her mood lasted--and hurt pride lasts long in disdainful ladies who are more wont to deal strokes than to bear them--my choice was plain.

I must drown there like a rat, or turn back a beaten cur.
Alas for my triumph! If to have thought on it were sin, I was now chastened.

But Barbara rowed on.