The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis.
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