Ferragut did not wish to imitate that kind of swimming.  The land was very far off for a man’s arms; it would be impossible to reach it.  Not a single one of the ship’s boats had remained afloat....  His only hope, a remote and whimsical one, was that some vessel might discover the shipwrecked men and save them.

In a little while this hope was almost realized.  From the crest of a wave he could see a black bark, long and low, without smokestack or mast, that was nosing slowly among the debris.  He recognized a submarine.  The dark silhouettes of several men were so plainly visible that he believed he heard them shouting.——­

“Ferragut!...  Where is Captain Ferragut?...”

“Ah, no!...  Better to die!”

And he clung to his raft, hanging his head as though drowning.  Then as night closed down upon him he heard still other shouts, but these were cries of help, cries of anguish, cries of death.  The rescuers were searching for him only, leaving the others to their fate.

He lost all notion of time.  An agonizing cold was paralyzing his entire frame.  His stiffened and swollen hands were loosening from the raft and grasping it again only by a supreme effort of his will.

The other shipwrecked men had taken the precaution to put on their life preservers when the ship began to sink.  Thanks to this apparatus, their death agony was going to be prolonged a few hours more.  Perhaps if they could hold out until daybreak, they might be discovered by some boat!  But he!...

Suddenly he remembered the Triton....  His uncle also had died in the sea; all the most vigorous members of the family had finally perished in its bosom.  For centuries and centuries it had been the tomb of the Ferraguts; with good reason they had called it “mare nostrum.”

He fancied that the currents might possibly have dragged his uncle’s dead body from the other promontory to the place over which he was floating.  Perhaps he might be now beneath his feet....  An irresistible force was pulling at them; his paralyzed hands loosened their hold on the wood.

“Uncle!...  Uncle!”

In his thoughts he was shrieking to his relative with the timorous plaint of the little fellow taking his first swimming lesson.  But his agonized hands again encountered the cold and weak support of the raft instead of that island of hard muscles crowned with a hairy and smiling face.

He continued his tenacious floating, struggling against the drowsiness that was urging him to relax from his drifting support and let himself go to the bottom, to sleep ... to sleep forever!  His shoes and clothing were continuing to pull and tug with even greater force.  They became an undulating shroud, growing heavier and heavier, surging and dragging down and down to the uttermost depths.  His desperation made him raise his eyes and look at the stars....  So high!...  Only to be able to grasp one of them, as his hands were now clutching the wood!...