I
A boy was wading shoreward dizzily. As he surged through the water, his body made long rippling waves. He watched them with dull fascination, pointing.
Then he began to whimper peevishly. He was tired, he was cold. The shore waved up and down before his eyes. He knew he couldn't do it.
From behind him a yell penetrated his dying mind.
It stopped him dead.
He was a little child, nightmare-bound.
Waving to and fro, the water to his knees, he stretched both arms shoreward.
"Mother!" he wailed.
A shout answered him.
Some one was crashing down the shingle, racing across the sand, and plunging through the water towards him.
The boy began to titter.
"Come on, Kit! come on!" came a rousing voice. "Don't look behind you!
That's the style! Come on!"
What was this black splashing figure, sword in hand? Was it the Angel of Death in full regimentals? Surely he recognised the face beneath the shako?
"You aren't mother," the boy giggled, swaying.
A strong arm was round him; a body, firm and full of life, was pressed against his dying one; a voice, quickening as the Spring, was in his ear.
"Splendid, Kit! Well done indeed! Lean on me. Lots o time."
"Have the soldiers come?" sobbed the boy, struggling forward.
"One has," came the sturdy voice—"a Black Borderer."
They waded through the shallows, the ripples breaking prettily about them.
Behind them a fierce voice sang out an order.
The galley, which had brought up with a bump against the submerged longboat, had hoisted the Gentleman on board, and was swooping in pursuit.
The boy heard the beat of the oars, and sank on his knees at the edge of the sea.
"I can't, sir. Take the bag. O go on!"
Two strong arms clutched him, and he was hoisted up.
All things were swimming away from him.
The last thing he knew was that he was in somebody's arms, and the somebody was running.