“Dair!” answered Porley, pointing over the darkening water with a gesture that was tragic in its despair.
At first Eve saw nothing; then she distinguished a black speck, she pointed towards it with her paddle.
“Yass’m, dat’s him. I ’ain’t nebber take my yies off ’em,” said the girl, crying.
“Tell Mrs. Morrison. She’s coming,” said Eve. She turned her boat and paddled out rapidly towards the speck.
“If I only had matches—why didn’t I bring some? It will be dark soon. But it’s so calm that nothing can have happened to him; he will be asleep.” In spite of her pretended certainty, however, dread held her heart as in a vise. “I won’t think—only row.” She tried to keep her mind a blank, resorting to the device of counting her strokes with great interest. On the light craft sped, with the peculiar skimming motion of the Indian canoe, as if it were gliding on the surface of the water. The twilight grew deeper.
There came a little gust, lightning showed itself for an instant in the bank of clouds across the southern sky. “There is going to be a storm.” She stopped; the other boat, which had been following her swiftly, came up.
“Have you ever been out in a canoe in a storm?” she called to the Irishman, keeping her own boat well away from Cicely’s.
“No, mum.”
“Take Mrs. Morrison back to shore, then, as fast as you can.”
“Go on!” commanded Cicely, with flashing eyes.