Blanche looked at the bulging bluff, the sharp rock. That made it bad. One could not make a straight dash—would have to make an angle—out and then back; and a moment’s hesitation at the turn—well, it wouldn’t do to meet the ebb there. Blanche knew the strength of the undertow.
With her eyes on the rising and receding water, she made a rapid calculation for the best moment to go in. She was excited, eager for the enterprise. She was surprised at the other woman’s pallor.
“We can’t get through there,” Lillian Gueste said, half angrily. She looked small, pale, impotent, among the severities of waves and sky.
“Then where?” Blanche slid lightly from her saddle.
“If we should shout——” Lillian began.
Blanche almost laughed at her. Did this woman expect to be rescued? Blanche’s experience had been that people in bad places had to get themselves out.
“Up on the cliff you couldn’t hear a cannon fired down here,” she said. “We can get through, only you must not be afraid.” She began loosening the lower hooks of her habit bodice.
“What are you going to do?” Lillian asked, nervously. She felt fearful of what might happen next in these strange, perilous conditions.
“Take off my skirt. Better do the same. Then if a wave gets you you can use your legs.”
Lillian looked at her in horror. “Oh, no!” she said, feeling somehow insulted.