"No, I won't leave you," I said in low tones that trembled under the fresh burden which they bore.
But yes, the wind rose, the mist began to lift, the water was running lazily from under our keel, the little boat bobbed and danced to a leisurely tune.
"The wind serves," cried Thomas Lie. "We shall make land in two hours if it hold as it blows now."
The plan was in my head. It was such an impulse as coming to a man seems revelation and forbids all questioning of its authority. I held Barbara still by the hand, and drew her to me. There, leaning over the gunwale, we saw Thomas Lie's boat moving after us. His sculls lay ready. I looked in her eyes, and was answered with wonder, perplexity, and dawning intelligence.
"I daren't let him carry you to Calais," I whispered; "we should be helpless there."
"But you—it's you."
"As his tool and his fool," I muttered. Low as I spoke, she heard me, and asked despairingly:
"What then, Simon? What can we do?"
"If I go there, will you jump into my arms? The distance isn't far."
"Into the boat! Into your arms in the boat?"