Without answering, almost without breathing, he took the girl by the
hand and ran with her that last naked distance toward the boat. The
crack of muskets was again heard from the promontory, and the torches
began to descend in a long, angling file. But it would have taken a
perfect shot to hit them, even if they had been stationary.
And the three were anything but that. By the time the lovers reached
him, the fisherman had righted the skiff and retrieved the oars. Then
all together they set the prow to seaward, and half lifted, half
lunged it down the wet sand incline, to where the ends of waves
splashed around them.
"Into the boat with you lass," said the fisherman, as the waters
surged stronger beneath it. "Kneel in the prow, and hold steady as you
can." Then together the two men urged the craft forward, into depths
that would sustain it. A short way further, and they clambered over
the sides, taking up their rowing positions. Then lowering oars, they
bent their backs in unison, and prepared to meet the oncoming waves.
The first nearly swamped them with a crash of angry foam.
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