“Do?” Garth spoke with grim force. “Why, you must be got off the island somehow. If not, you're fair game for every venomous tongue in the town.”
“Would any one hear us from the shore if we shouted?” she suggested.
He shook his head.
“No. The sound would carry in the opposite direction to-day.”
“Then what can we do?”
By this time the manifest anxiety in Trent's face was reflected in her own. The possibility that they might be compelled to spend the night on Devil's Hood Island was not one that could be contemplated with equanimity, for Sara had no illusions whatever as to the charitableness of the view the world at large would take of such an episode—however accidental its occurrence. Unfortunately, essential innocence is frequently but a poor tool wherewith to scotch a scandal.
“There is only one thing to be done,” said Garth at last, after fruitlessly scanning the waters for any stray fishing-boat that might be passing. “I must swim across, and then row back and take you off.”
“Swim across?” Sara regarded the distance between the island and the shore with consternation. “You couldn't possibly do it. It's too far.”
“Just under a mile.”
“But you would have the tide against you,” she urged. The current off the coast ran with dangerous rapidity between the mainland and the island, and more than one strong swimmer, as Sara knew, had lost his life struggling against it.