Through the long summer morning Offa, the young King of Mercia, has hunted across the rich Lindsey marshes which lie south of the Humber; and now in the heat of the noon he will leave his party awhile and ride with one thane only to the great Roman bank which holds back the tides, and seek a cool breath from the salt sea, whose waves he can hear.  So he sets spurs to his great white steed, and with the follower after him, rides to where the high sand dunes are piled against the bank, and reins up on their grassy summit, and looks eastward across the most desolate sands in all England, gull-haunted only.

“Here is a marvel,” he cries, turning to his thane.  “Many a time have I hunted along this shore, but never before have I seen the like of this here.”

He laughs, and points below him toward the sand, and his thane rides nearer.  The tide has crept almost to the foot of the ancient sea wall, and gently rocking on it lies a wondrously beautiful boat with red and white sail set, but with no man, or aught living beyond the white terns which hover and swoop about it, to be seen.

“’Tis a foreign boat,” says the thane.  “Our folk cannot frame such an one as this.  Doubtless she has broken her line from astern of some ship last night, and so has been wafted hither.”

“Men do not tow a boat with her sail set,” laughs the king.  “Let us go and see her.”

So they ride shoreward across the dunes, and ever the breeze edges the boat nearer and nearer, till at last she is at rest on the edge of the tide, lifting now and then as some little wave runs beneath her sharp stern.  For once the North Sea is still, and even the brown water of the Humber tides is blue across the yellow sands.

The horses come swiftly and noiselessly across the strand, but the white steed of the king is restless as he nears the boat, sniffing the air and tossing his head.  The king speaks to him, thinking that it is the swinging sail which he pretends to fear.  And then the horse starts and almost rears, for at the sound of the clear voice there rises somewhat from the hollow of the little craft, and the king himself stays in amaze.

For he sees before him the most wondrously beautiful maiden his eyes have rested on, golden-haired and blue-eyed, wan and weary with the long voyage from the far-off shore, and holding out to him piteous hands, blistered with the rough sheet and steering oar.  She says naught, but naught is needed.

“Lady,” he says, doffing his gold-circled cap, “have no fear.  All is well, and you are safe.  Whence come you?”

But he has no answer, for the maiden sinks back into the boat swooning.  Then in all haste the king sends his thane for help to the party they have left; and so he sits on the boat’s gunwale and watches the worn face pityingly.

Now come his men, and at his word they tend the maiden with all care, so that very soon she revives again, and can tell her tale.  Beyond the hunger and thirst there has indeed been little hardship to a daughter of the sea in the summer weather, for the breeze has been kindly and steady, and the boat stanch and swift.  There has been rain too, gentle, and enough to stave off the utmost thirst.