"She will rise outside now," said Phil, fingering the rope which Matilda Freyne insisted on being carried by him.
A minute, almost two, Darby scraped and shuffled along the rocks, his teeth set, Stafford slipping past him easily.
"Is it this pool, Phil?" Stafford peered down beyond the Bridge.
"It is," said Phil, gathering sea-grass placidly.
Something alive had vanished under that wall of rock, down into the sucking cold depths, something at the mercy of the sea; the men bent over, both tense from fear.
"Phil, for God's sake! Does she do it often? Phil, come here!"
"She does so, sir, too often. I am gatherin' say-grass for the Misthress, sir, and won't she be plazed if there isn't enough."
"Say-grass, you Phil?" The green water stirred. Cobbles scurried madly away. Gheena's face parted the water.
"Po-oh!" She drew a long breath. "Po-oh! I got on slowly to-day somehow." She ran back, swam up the long pool and hurried off to dress.
"That submarine business," said Darby gloomily, looking down into the still pool.