He did not ask her how it happened that she came so speedily to his assistance. Enough that she had done it, daring all for his sake. She was weak and trembling. With the acute vision of the soul she saw again, and yet again, the deadly malice of the octopus, the divine despair of the man.
Reaching the firm sand, she could walk alone. She limped. Instantly her companion's blunted emotions quickened into life. He caught her arm and said hoarsely—
"Are you hurt in any way?"
The question brought her back from dreamland. A waking nightmare was happily shattered into dim fragments. She even strove to smile unconcernedly.
"It is nothing," she murmured. "I stumbled on the rocks. There is no sprain. Merely a blow, a bit of skin rubbed off, above my ankle."
"Let me carry you."
"The idea! Carry me! I will race you to the cave."
It was no idle jest. She wanted to run—to get away from that inky blotch in the green water.
"You are sure it is a trifle?"
"Quite sure. My stocking chafes a little; that is all. See, I will show you."