A man ran out along the rock, heard the faltering words.
"By the God above us she shall clear it," stormed Bertie, "and give us back our child. No, Esmé, no. Oh, wait! I'm down."
He was in the water now, swimming strongly, too late; the last strand of weed had parted; weak, tired Esmé had slipped to her rest in the cool, clear water. And as she went, little Cecil, sobbing wildly, holding out his spade, fell over into the sea.
A clawing, twisted woman rose from the sands, screaming wildly, looking up as baby Cecil fell over.
Sir Cyril ran past her, kicking off his shoes as he went.
Bertie hesitated for a second, but the struggling, drowning mite had fallen in coming to try to save Cyril; he turned, swam to Cecil, and carried the child to the rock, where his father leant over.
"Quickly, man!—we'll dive," Sir Cyril cried.
"I give you back your child," Bertie said. "Mine is gone for ever." He swam on.
Diving, he brought up Esmé, her boy clasped to her.
Estelle had fetched help. They carried the still figures quickly to the cliff and back to the house.