I was pulling as I had not pulled since I rowed in my college boat at Oxford nine years before. I thought of the race at that moment with a sort of amusement. But all the while Phroso kept watch for me; by design or chance she did not move from between me and the shore.
‘They’re running to the boat now. They’re getting in. Are they coming after us, my lord?’
‘Heaven knows! I suppose so.’
I was wondering why they had not used their rifles; they had evidently thought of firing at first, but something had held their hands. Perhaps they, mere humble soldiers, shrank from the responsibility. Their leader, whose protection would have held them harmless and whose favour rewarded them, lay dead. They might well hesitate to fire on a man whom they knew to be a person of some position and who had taken no part in Mouraki’s death.
‘They’re launching the boat. They’re in now,’ came in Phroso’s breathless whisper.
‘How far off are we?’
‘I don’t know; two hundred yards, perhaps. They’ve started now.’
‘Do they move well?’
‘Yes, they’re rowing hard. Oh, my dear lord, can you row harder?’ She turned to me for an instant, clasping her hands in entreaty.