How long he swam thus, he did not know; but after many strokes he was conscious of a sense of happiness that, after all, it wasn’t necessary to reach land or to struggle any more.  Rest and respite from excruciating effort were to be had for the taking—­why had he withstood them so long?  The sea rocked him, the surge filled his ears, his limbs relaxed their tension.  Then it was that a strong hand grasped him, and a second later the same hand dealt him a violent blow on the face.

He had to begin the intolerable exertion of swimming again, but he no longer had a burden to hold safe; there was no burden in sight.  Half-consciously he felt the earth once more beneath his feet, but he could not stand.  He fell face forward into the water again at his first attempt; and again the strong hand pulled him up and half-carried him over some slimy rocks.  It was an endless journey before the strong hand would let him sit or lie down, but at last he was allowed to drop.

He vaguely felt the warmth of the sun drying his skin while the sea hummed in his ears; he felt distinctly the sharp pain between his eyes, and a parching thirst.  He groped around in a delirious search for water, which he did not find; he pressed his head and limbs against the earth in an exquisite relief from pain; and at last his bruised feet, his aching bones and head constrained him to a lethargy that ended in sleep.

CHAPTER IX

THE CAMP ON THE BEACH

Sunset of the day that had dawned so strangely and wonderfully for those two wayfarers of earth, James and Agatha, fell on a little camp near the spit of coast-land toward which they had struggled.  The point lifted itself abruptly into a rocky bank which curved in and out, yielding to the besieging waves.  Just here had been formed a little sandy cove partly protected by the beetling cliff.  At the top was verdure in abundance.  Vines hung down over the face of the wall, coarse grasses and underbrush grew to its very edge, and sharp-pointed fir trees etched themselves against the clear blue of the sky.  Below, the white sand formed a sickle-shaped beach, bordered by the rocky wall, with its sharp point dipping far out to sea.  High up on the sand a small rowboat was beached.  There was no path visible up from the shingle, but it was evident that the ascent would be easy enough.

Nevertheless, the campers did not attempt it.  Instead, they had made a fire of driftwood on the sand out of reach of the highest tide.  Near the fire they had spread fir boughs, and on this fragrant couch James was lying.  He was all unconscious, apparently, of the primitive nature of his surroundings, the sweetness of his balsam bed, and the watchful care of his two nurses.

Jim was in a bad way, if one could trust the remarks of his male nurse, who spoke to an invisible companion as he gathered chips and other bits of wood from the beach.  He was a young, businesslike fellow with a clean, wholesome face, dressed only in gauze shirt, trousers, and boots without stockings; this lack, of course, was not immediately apparent.  The tide had just turned after the ebb, and he went far down over the wet sand, sometimes climbing over the rocks farther along the shore until he was out of sight of the camp.