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." "We can climb the head and round into Grande Greve, but it would be pretty rough on the feet. Or we can wait till the tide turns and swim in again--" "When will it turn?" "It's full at noon," he said, studying the waters in front. "But how that affects matters here none but a Sarkman could say. Tides here are a law unto themselves, like the people." "How would that do?" asked Margaret, as a black boat came slowly round the rocks from Les Fontaines, sculled by an elderly fisherman. "It is old Billy Mollet after his lobster-pots," and he stood up and coo-eed to the new-comer, and waved his arms till Billy saw them and stared hard and then turned leisurely their way. "Guyablle!" said the old man, as he drew in. "What you doin' there now?" "Got carried out of Grande Greve by a current, Mr. Mollet. Will you take us back in your boat?" "Ay, ay!" and he brought the boat as near to the rock as he dared, and his weather-stained old eyes settled hypnotically on the fairest burden his old tub had ever carried, as Graeme handed her carefully down and helped her to spring into the dancing craft, and then sprang in himself with bleeding feet and shins, while Punch leaped lightly after him and crawled under a thwart.