His arms were round her neck, her head was on his bosom. Peebles, holding the lanthorn, bent over them, tears streaming down his wrinkled face.
‘Desmond—my boy!’ she murmured.
‘Mother, my mother!’ he answered, sobbing over her.
He had watched her drop into the mill-pool, and then had plunged in to her rescue, catching her as she was swept down towards the fall below the mill, and swimming with her to the bank whereon she now lay.
CHAPTER XII.—MR. PEEBLES PREPARES FOR WAR.
For a long, sacred space the mother and son thus strangely reunited knelt together, their arms about each other, their hearts full of a whirl of many mingled emotions which made speech impossible. When at last Moya broke the long silence, it was with a voice curiously calm, despite the deep underlying tremor which told by what an heroic effort she was able to speak at all.
‘Desmond! My son!’
‘Mother!’ was all Desmond could sob in return.