Cadogan whirled. "Passenger? Passenger! I've fought and schemed and—Oh!"
It was Lavis, and, clinging to his hand, was somebody in a man's long ulster.
"It's the woman—you remember her?—who passed her baby boy into the boat so that he would be saved."
Cadogan said nothing.
"A few minutes ago I found her. She was weeping for her baby. I asked her why she should be weeping now that her baby was safe, and she answered me: 'But who will be there to give him the breast when he wakes?'"
Cadogan rested his left hand, with the fingers clinched around the cap, on the ship's rail.
"If Christ on earth were to be with us once more," went on Lavis softly, "would he not say again: 'Greater love hath no man than this'? 'Who will be there to give him the breast when he wakes?'—and she about to die. Have you room for her as a passenger on your raft?"
"It will bear only one."
Lavis waited.
Cadogan unloosed the fingers of the hand on the rail. The cap dropped into the sea.