The year rolled round, weeks merged into months, winter into spring, and one glorious summer at daybreak he wakened to her voice calling him.  She stood beside him, smiling.

“It will be to-day,” she said proudly.

He sprang from his couch of wolf-skins and looked out upon the coming day:  the promise of what it would bring him seemed breathing through all his forest world.  He took her very gently by the hand and led her through the tangle of wilderness down to the water’s edge, where the beauty spot we moderns call Stanley Park bends about Prospect Point.  “I must swim,” he told her.

“I must swim, too,” she smiled, with the perfect understanding of two beings who are mated.  For, to them, the old Indian custom was law—­the custom that the parents of a coming child must swim until their flesh is so clear and clean that a wild animal cannot scent their proximity.  If the wild creatures of the forests have no fear of them, then, and only then, are they fit to become parents, and to scent a human is in itself a fearsome thing to all wild creatures.

So those two plunged into the waters of the Narrows as the grey dawn slipped up the eastern skies and all the forest awoke to the life of a new, glad day.  Presently he took her ashore, and smilingly she crept away under the giant trees.  “I must be alone,” she said, “but come to me at sunrise:  you will not find me alone then.”  He smiled also, and plunged back into the sea.  He must swim, swim, swim through this hour when his fatherhood was coming upon him.  It was the law that he must be clean, spotlessly clean, so that when his child looked out upon the world it would have the chance to live its own life clean.  If he did not swim hour upon hour his child would come to an unclean father.  He must give his child a chance in life; he must not hamper it by his own uncleanliness at its birth.  It was the tribal law—­the law of vicarious purity.

As he swam joyously to and fro, a canoe bearing four men headed up the Narrows.  These men were giants in stature, and the stroke of their paddles made huge eddies that boiled like the seething tides.

“Out from our course!” they cried as his lithe, copper-colored body arose and fell with his splendid stroke.  He laughed at them, giants though they were, and answered that he could not cease his swimming at their demand.

“But you shall cease!” they commanded.  “We are the men [agents] of the Sagalie Tyee [God], and we command you ashore out of our way!” (I find in all these Coast Indian legends that the Deity is represented by four men, usually paddling an immense canoe.)

He ceased swimming, and, lifting his head, defied them.  “I shall not stop, nor yet go ashore,” he declared, striking out once more to the middle of the channel.

“Do you dare disobey us,” they cried—­“we, the men of the Sagalie Tyee?  We can turn you into a fish, or a tree, or a stone for this; do you dare disobey the Great Tyee?”