Nancy grabbed her arm, shouted in her ear, “Run ... run ...”
“What ... why?” Cynthia’s feet pounded after Nancy. Over her shoulder Nancy flung, “‘The tide,’ he said. ‘The tide is rising.’”
Cynthia looked back. The girl behind them had risen from her rock. With a wrench Cynthia freed her arm from Nancy’s grasp, put hands to mouth and megaphoned. “Hurry! Hurry! The tide!”
She seemed to get the idea for immediately she came leaping down over the rocks. Cynthia paused only once to glance behind and see what good speed the girl was making, then raced to catch up with Nancy. Almost together the three reached the sands.
So that was why they had changed so rapidly from ochre to lavender. Water, tidal water, seeping swiftly, menacingly from beneath, pouring in from every side. But the sand at the base of the rocks was still dry, it was hardly five minutes race around the rocks to the end of the little street. Hearts pounding, breath sobbing, they reached it together.
Cynthia could not stop there. She wanted to reach her hotel, her room, feel safe ground, familiar ground that could not dissolve into seas beneath her feet, before she stopped. As she tore through the hallway, passed the astonished eyes of Madame at the desk, Nancy was close behind. Together they dragged the little American in with them, slumped together on the two beds.
“Well!” gasped Cynthia.
“Well!” Nancy echoed her. “My good gosh, Cynthia, that was a close call!” The buttercup girl rose first, stood for a long moment at the window looking out. “Look here ...” she said at last, seemed to have trouble with her voice and spoke again, “Come here, you two.” It was the first they had heard her speak.
Cynthia who had by now slightly recovered her breath, felt that her knees would bear her again. But when she looked out she nearly lost what breath she had gained.
“Nancy ... oh Nancy!”