Then the empty cup began to shake in her hand and he took it from her.
“You’re not over strong yet,” said he, “but you’ll be better in a bit with this sun. Y’aren’t afraid of the sea cows, are you?”
She shook her head.
“Thought you wouldn’t be,” said he, “there’s no harm in them. Well, I’ll be moving about. I’ll go and have a look down the beach and see what’s to be found.”
He hung for a moment with the cup in his hand shading his eyes and looking seaward, then he turned towards the cave to put the cup back.
“What is your name?” she said, suddenly, bringing him to a halt.
“Raft,” said he.
“Raft,” she repeated the name several times in a low voice as if committing it to memory or turning it over in her mind.
“How long might you have been here?” he asked, standing in a doubtful manner, as though debating in his mind the wisdom of allowing her to strain her strength answering questions.
“I don’t know,” said she, “a long while. I was wrecked with two men from a yacht. The Gaston de Paris. We came here in a boat. They are both dead.”