"Bertie, I'm not worth it," she said. "Don't risk anything."
Voices are strangely clear across the water; hers rang plainly.
"I'll come, Esmé. I must find a way. I'll save you."
"I'm going to drown, Bertie. I'm so tired, it won't hurt much; but I've time to talk a little."
As he raged up and down his ledge he heard her voice telling, as quietly as though they were in some room, safe and sheltered, her story.
"Send for Luigi Frascatelle, he'll identify me as the boy's mother. Bertie, I sold my birthright, but I've been punished for it, so forgive me now, and keep my Cyrrie—he's alive."
The pity of it as she clung there—young, pretty, once so happy. Truly, the punishment had been hard.
"Esmé! I see a way. I'll get down in five minutes. Live on and let the past be."
Twice she had felt the water at her lips, once her boy had almost slipped from her arms.
"I would have swum round but one arm is hurt," she said weakly. "Bertie, I think the boy is dying. If he dies let Denise be. Don't tell if she will clear my name."