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towering, seagreen wall, mockingly it rushed forward,
remorselessly swooped down upon them! This time the boat was
completely swamped.
I will at least die fighting! thought Raeburn, a despairing,
defiant courage inspiring him with almost superhuman strength.
Trust to me! he cried. Don't struggle! And Erica who would
naturally have fallen into that frantic and vain convulsion which
seizes most people when they find themselves in peril of drowning,
by a supreme effort of will made no struggle at all, but only clung
to her father.
Raeburn was a very strong man, and an expert swimmer, but it was a
fearful sea. They were dashed hither and thither, they were
buffeted, and choked, and blinded, but never once did he lose his
presence of mind. Every now and then he even shouted out a few
words to Erica. How strange his voice sounded in that chaos, in
that raging symphony of winds and waves.
Tell me when you can't hold any longer, he cried.
I can't leave go, returned Erica.
And even then, in that desperate minute, they both felt a momentary
thrill of amusement. The fact was, that her effort of will had
been so great when she had obeyed him, and clung with all her might
to him, that now the muscles of her hands absolutely would not
relax their hold.
It seemed endless! Over the cold green and white of the waves
Raeburn seemed to see his whole life stretched out before him, in
a series of vivid pictures. All the long struggles, all the
desperate fights wreathed themselves out in visions round this
supreme death struggle. And always there was the consciousness
that he was toiling for Erica's life, struggling, agonizing,
straining every fiber of his being to save her.
But what was this paralyzing cold creeping over his limbs? What
this pressure at his heart? This dimness of his eyes? Oh! Was
his strength failing him? Was the last hope, indeed, gone?
Panting, he struggled on.
I will do thirty more strokes! he said to himself. And he did
them.
I will do ten more!
And he forced himself to keep on.
Ten more!
He was gasping now. Erica's weight seemed to be dragging him down,
down, into nothingness.
Six strokes painfully made! Seven! After all nothingness would
mean rest. Eight! No pain to either, since they were together.
Nine! He should live on in the hearts of his people. Ten! Agony
of failure! He was beaten at last!
What followed they neither of them knew, only there was a shout, an
agony of sinking, a vision of a dark form and a something solid
which they grasped convulsively.
When Erica came to herself they were by no means out of danger, but
there was something between them and the angry sea. She was lying

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