“Now, dearest, a little spurt and we shall be in the slack.  If you get tired, tell me,” and they struck out vigorously on a shoreward slant in the direction they were going.

There should have been a backwater round the corner of Vermandes.  He had counted on it.  And there was one, but so swift was the rush of the tide round the out-jutting rocks of La Joue, that for some minutes, as they battled with the rough edge of it, it was touch and go with them.

At a word from her his arm would be at her service.  But she fought bravely on, and could admire Punch’s graceful action even then.  The waves smacked her rudely in the face.  Great writhing coils came belching up from below and burst under her chin and almost swamped her.  One, as strong as a snake, rose suddenly under her, flung her off her stroke, rolled her over, made her for a moment feel utterly helpless.

“Jock!”

He had been watching her closely.  His arm flashed out in front of her.

“Grip!” and she hung on to it and it felt like a bar of steel.

“Now!”—­when she had recovered herself somewhat.  “Grip the top of my suit.”—­She hooked her fingers into it and he struck out through the turmoil.

It was a tough little fight.  She struck out vigorously behind to help him.  And, though the losing of the fight might mean tragedy and two white bodies ragging forlornly along the black teeth of Little Sark, she still had time to notice the mighty play of muscles in his back and arms, and the swelling veins in his sunburnt neck, and the crisp rippled hair above, and she rejoiced mightily in him.  And—­while possible deaths lurked all about them—­her soul grew large within her at thought of the brave heart in front, and the strenuous will, and the shapely body, and the powerful muscles—­all battling for her—­all hers—­and she theirs.  What matter if they were beaten, if they but went out together!  What matter Death so long as he did not divide them!  So uplifted was she with the joy of him.

And then, with a final wrestle, they were in slack water, and she loosed her hold and struck out alongside him.

And presently he was helping her carefully up a seamed black rock, and the hand she gripped was shaking now, and she knew it was not for himself.

“Thank God!” said Graeme fervently, as he sank down heavily beside her, and panted while the water ran out of them, and Punch scrambled up and lay quietly alongside.  “Meg,—­we were in peril.”

“Jock,” she said jerkily, for her heart was going now quicker than usual, “I do not believe I would have minded—­if we’d gone together.”

“Ay—­together, but, God be thanked, it did not come to that!”

They sat in silence for a time, finding themselves, while the green seas swelled up to their feet, and sank out of sight below, and their rock was laced with cascades of creamy foam.

“How shall we get back?” asked Margaret at last.  “Hennie will be in desperation.  She will think we are drowned.”