“Ah, Mr Winter, is that you?” says Murch. “We have met with accidents, sir. Mr Pomfrett not with us? Where is Mr Pomfrett?” he called aloud.
“Fell out, sir,” said two or three voices.
“Why, there, now,” Murch went on, “he cannot be far behind. I saw him but now. Climb the beach, and you will find him, Mr Winter. But make haste.”
Climb the beach, quoth he—run my head into a solid wall of blackness. There was no help for it, and on I went, stumbling over the rocks at every step, and shouting my comrade’s name. Suddenly, out of the thick darkness, a hand clutched my arm. I had a jolt of fright, but the voice of Morgan Leroux brought me to my senses.
“Keep quiet,” said she, speaking low. “Stop where you are.”
At the same moment I heard Murch give the order to shove off. The splash of the oars was inaudible in the thunder of the surf.
“Why, is he going to leave us?” I said.
“We are going to leave him, Harry,” said Morgan. “Keep quiet, I say, if you value your life. As for me, he thinks I am on board. Now come.”
There was no disputing Morgan, any more than her grandsire. We stumbled forward in the dark until we fetched up against a boulder. Looking back, we saw the water all a-gleam with phosphorescent light, flakes of fire dropping from the oar-blades, where the boat was ploughing a channel of lambent flame. Far away the ship’s lights shone, swinging to and fro in the dark. Overhead a thick curtain of cloud hid the stars; landward the fire-flies glimmered and darted, and we knew we were close to the forest.
“We must get forward,” said Morgan. “When Murch comes aboard and misses me, he’ll send a search-party.”