With one last, splendid effort she thrust her silent companion to a place on the plank surface. Then she followed.
Petite Jeanne was completely benumbed with cold. Her lips were blue. When she attempted to stand, her knees would not support her.
Gathering her in her arms as she might a child, Florence hurried toward the cottage not twenty yards away.
The place was completely dark. For all that, she did not hesitate to knock loudly at the door.
There came no answer. She knocked again, and yet again. Still no answer.
She had just placed her shoulder squarely against the door, preparatory to forcing it, when a voice demanded:
“Who’s there?”
“I,” Florence replied. “We’ve had an accident. Boat turned over. We are soaked, chilled, in danger. Let us in!”
There came a sound of movement from within. Then a heavy bar dropped back with a slam.
As the door swung open, Florence gasped. She had seen the occupant of this cottage at a distance. Since she always dressed in garments of somber hue and lived here alone, Florence had expected to find her old. Instead, there stood before her, holding a lamp high like a torch, a most dazzling creature. A young woman, certainly not past twenty-five, with tossing golden hair and penetrating blue eyes, she stood there garbed in a dressing gown of flaming red.