When she had secured a firm hold, Florence swam slowly. She must have time to think. The boat was overturned, perhaps smashed. At any rate she could not right it. The speed boat had not paused. It was far away. The night and dark waters were all about them.
“They never slackened their pace!” she muttered bitterly. “And they laughed! I heard a laugh. It was a woman. How could they?”
What was to be done?
On the shore a single light gleamed.
“It’s the light of that mysterious islander,” she told herself. “That woman who goes out only at night. That is by far the nearest point. We must try for that. It is our only chance. She must let us in; make a fire; dry us out. Jeanne will perish of cold.”
With that she turned her face toward that light and, swimming strongly, glided silently through the dark water. The waters were not more silent than her fair burden, who floated after her like a ghost.
CHAPTER II
THE LADY OF THE ISLAND
They made a trail in the water, the two girls, one who swam and one who drifted after. The trail was short. It appeared to begin at nothing and end nowhere. The moon painted it with a touch of silver.
Florence swam steadily. She thought she knew her powers—had measured the distance well. She swam with the determination of one who prizes life as a precious gift, not lightly to be held, or carelessly put aside.
Such a girl will go far. But did she fully know her powers? True, she had gone a great distance in other waters. But this was night in the north. The water was chilling. A sudden cramp, a brief struggle, and their path of silver would vanish. Only the drifting boat would speak of the night’s tragedy.