‘Desmond—your son Desmond!’
Desmond! Her son! Even in her dire and awful peril she felt a thrill of delicious joy.
‘Save me, Desmond, save me!’ she cried.
‘The water-wheel!’ answered Desmond. Climb out from the window, stand on the wheel, and lape for your life into the pool below!’
Moya hesitated, and again, as the flame and smoke thickened behind her, uttered a despairing scream.
‘’Tis your only chance for life,’ called the voice. ‘Jump, mother darling! Sure I’ll be near to help ye! Jump, for the love of God!’
It was that or being burned alive. The whole mill was now one sheet of flame, and the fire scorched her as she stood, while the wooden floor crackled and split beneath her feet. Crossing herself, and consigning her soul to God, she scrambled out on the wheel and clung there on hands and knees, exposed to the full force of wind and rain.
‘Jump, mother!’ cried Desmond once more. She fluttered forward with a cry, and slipped rather than fell with a heavy splash into the boiling waters of the pool. As she did so her senses left her; she seemed to be sucked down, down into some awful abyss; then she was conscious of nothing more.
When her eyes opened, she was lying on the bank of the stream, with the light from a lanthorn flashing into her face.
‘Mother! mother!’ cried the voice she had heard before. ‘It’s Desmond—your son Desmond!’