“There is no saving it,” and she laughed softly; “the thing must get soaked.”
“Give it to me. I can carry it above my head.”
“No, no; something else must serve. Mother of Heaven—they are after us—at last!”
She let the cloak drop, and left it floating as she dipped to the water and struck out for the island. Martin caught it up and followed her, blessing the darkness for its friendliness. He glanced over his shoulder as he swam, and saw a dozen red lights tossing toward them over the grassland. Fulk de Lisle had sent a man to the shelter of leaves, and its emptiness had been discovered.
Mellis was swimming so swiftly that he had to strike out hard to overtake her. Her arm came out and cut the water like a silver sickle, each stroke striking a little splash of foam. Martin drew to her, and they swam side by side.
“We shall beat them.”
“Please God. The torches will not show the farther bank.”
“How you can swim!”
“I always loved this side stroke. I could beat my brother in a race.”
Her whiteness played near him under the black swirl of the water.