Again it came, and round the promontory they saw a light appear, wavering like the cry, floating in the darkness, rising and falling as if it pulsed and breathed.
'No; no; no,' he heard Marthe say—or thought he heard her say. The words were hardly a whisper and her head was turned away from him.
Graham sprang to his feet, steadying himself by a hand laid on her shoulder. 'Jill! Jill! Jill!' he shouted. Already he could see the boat; the lantern at the bows; the two forms straining at the oars in the racing current. And Jill answered him, crying: 'Marthe! Dick!'
He looked down at Marthe. She sat below him still, her face turned towards the boat, the kid, wrapped in the shawl, held closely to her side. 'We're to live, Marthe,' he said. 'She's come to save us. Nothing can part us now.'
She did not look up at him. She made him no reply. The water lapped up about her feet.
'Come,' he said harshly. 'Stand beside me. Help me. I can't be saved unless I lean on you. You've got to live;—for me.'
It was life Jill brought them; but what was this dark dismay lapping at his soul?
Marthe rose to her knees and he took her hand and pulled her up beside him, grasping her shoulder, fastening her to his side. Let him hold her close. Let him feel her there, against his heart. Life might be the looming menace; but he wanted Marthe.
And she was obedient. She stood steadying him, sustaining them both, for the water was sweeping now
