There was no time for Kent to explain.

He sprang to his pack, whipped a knife from his pocket, and cut the stout babiche rope that reenforced its straps.

In another instant he was back at Marette's side, fastening the babiche about her waist.

The other end he gave to her, and she tied it about his wrist.
She smiled as she finished the knot.

It was a strange, tense little smile, but it told him that she was not afraid, that she had great faith in him, and knew what the babiche meant.
"I can swim, Jeems," she cried.