They swarm over it." Whilst he was speaking, he had made fast the painter, and he now stepped out on to the landing-stage.

Sara prepared to follow him.

For a moment she stood poised with one foot on the gunwale of the boat, then, as an incoming wave drove the little skiff suddenly against the wooden supports of the jetty, she staggered, lost her balance, and toppled helplessly backward.
But even as she fell, Garth's arms closed round her like steel bars, and she felt herself lifted clean up from the rocking boat on to the landing-stage.

For an instant she knew that she rested a dead weight against his breast; then he placed her very gently on her feet.
"All right ?" he queried, steadying her with his hand beneath her arm.
"That was a near shave." His queer hazel eyes were curiously bright, and Sara, meeting their gaze, felt her face flame scarlet.
"Quite, thanks," she said a little breathlessly, adding: "You must be very strong." She moved her arm as though trying to free it from his clasp, and he released it instantly.

But his face was rather white as he knelt down to lift out the tea-basket, and he, too, was breathing quickly.
Somewhat silently they made their way up the sandy slope that stretched ahead of them, and presently, as they mounted the last rise, the malignant, distorted face beneath the Devil's Hood leaped into view, granite-grey and menacing against the young blue of the April sky.
"What a perfectly horrible head!" exclaimed Sara, gazing at it aghast.
"It's like a nightmare of some kind." "Yes, it's not pretty," admitted Garth.