"We had a cottage in the Isle of Wight for a year, when first we came from France, and I grew very fond of the water."
"Do you see Macro over there?" as they came to the end of the point. "He's hard at work. We'll tackle a different part. If you will sit down here and rest, I will get across and be back as soon as I can."
"Could I not come with you?"
"I don't know how deep the channels may be. Sometimes we can wade across, sometimes we have to swim."
"I don't mind. It can't make me any wetter than if I have to jump in because of the birds. And I have been wetter still."
"Very well. It will save much time," and they waded out alongside one another,—The Girl catching her breath at times with spasmodic little jerks of laughter, as she stepped into unexpected depths or a wave came higher than usual;—and he, intent as he was on the business in hand, yet mightily cognisant of her proximity and the penetrating and intoxicating charm of it.
When, at one sudden plunge, she gasped and clutched wildly at his bare arm, her touch sent the blood whirling through his veins. He took her soft wet hand, which was all of a tremble with excitement, in his strong and steady one, and she gripped it tightly and drew new strength from it.
Out on the great pile of wreckage in front, but somewhat towards their right, they caught glimpses now and again of Macro—a wild dark figure silhouetted against the pale-blue sky behind—as he climbed to and fro, and stood at times, and swung up his arms and his club and smashed his way through to the desire of his heart.
Wulfrey worked round to the left, and so came upon a channel which they had to swim. He fastened his axe into his belt at the back and they struck out together. He watched her anxiously at first, but was satisfied. She swam well and knowingly; they soon touched ground again, and another wade and another short swim brought them to the pile.
The Girl had been regarding it with curious eyes and ejaculations of wonder.