Montesma,
Hartfield, Maulevrier, all followed her, heedless of everything except
the dire necessity of arresting her flight. Each in his own mind had
divined her purpose.
They were not too late. It was Hartfield's strong arm that caught her,
held her as in a vice, dragged her away from the edge of the deck, just
where there was a space open to the waves. Another instant and she would
have flung herself overboard. She fell back into Lord Hartfield's arms,
with a wild choking cry: 'Let me go! Let me go!' Another moment, and a
flood of crimson stained his shirt-front, as she lay upon his breast,
with closed eyelids and blood-bedabbled lips, in blessed
unconsciousness.
They carried her on to the steam-yacht, and down to the cabin, where
there was ample accommodation and some luxury, although not the elegance
of Bond Street upholstery. Rilboche, Lady Kirkbank, Kibble, luggage of
all kinds were transferred from one yacht to the other, even to the
vellum bound Keats which lay face downwards on the deck, just where
Lesbia had flung it when the _Cayman_ was boarded.
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