Godfrey mingled verses from the burial service with prayers and de Bennetot punctuated them at intervals with fervent amens. This appeared to restore their courage a trifle, for they suddenly rose, burning to get the business over.
De Bennetot brought the great boulder he had ready, and tied it firmly to the iron ring. They pushed the boat down the beach into the still water. Then, together, they pushed the other boat down the beach and clambered into it. Godfrey took the two oars while de Bennetot tied the painter of the boat of the doomed woman to the last thwart of the boat they were in, then shipped the rudder.
So they rowed out to sea to the quiet accompaniment of dripping oars. Shadows darker than the night allowed them to make their slow way safely between lowering rocks towards the open sea. But, at the end of twenty minutes, their progress grew slower and slower; and they came to a stop.
“I can’t go any further,” said the Baron in a faint voice. “My arms have given out. It’s your turn.”
“I couldn’t move her a yard,” de Bennetot protested with manifest sincerity.
Godfrey made another attempt and gave it up.
“What’s the use?” he said. “Surely we’ve got far enough out and to spare. What do you think?”
“Of course we have,” said de Bennetot quickly—“especially since there’s a breeze from the shore which will take the boat further out still.”
“Then pull that straw out of the hole.”
“You’ve got to do that,” protested de Bennetot, to whom the act seemed the very act of murder.