“Phil, where can he be?” she cried, her voice sharp now with the terror of having a man in peril of his life at her side, and yet being unable to help him.

“There he is; I saw the rushes move,” yelled Phil.  “No, not that clump—­you are looking wrong; it is the one that has got a lupin blooming in it.  Ah, I saw it move again!  Keep your spirits up, old fellow, and we will have you out in no time!”

“But how?” groaned Katherine under her breath, for no effort of hers would move the boat a foot farther through that awful slime, and if she got wedged she would be forced to stay there until someone came in search.  Then, remembering the horrible danger of the man, she called out:  “Please don’t struggle at all, only just keep still, and I think we can save you, for we have got rope with us.”

“So we have!  My word, how fortunate!” exclaimed Phil, tugging a big bundle of stout hempen cord from under the other things of their miscellaneous lading.

“Get the other bundle too; I must have both,” said Katherine, and, taking the first, she made a slip knot and a loop which would tighten to a certain extent.

“What are you going to do?  You can’t throw it over him from here,” said the boy.

“Phil, can you be very brave, darling, and walk across on the oars?” Katherine asked, a sob catching in her throat.  “I will slip this other rope round you; then, if you slip in, I can drag you out.”

“I’ll go,” said Phil, alert and ready.  Then he kicked off his boots, which were stout—­and every ounce mattered when one took to walking on muskegs; but as his clothing consisted of only a flannel shirt and serge knickerbockers there were no clothes for him to shed.

Katherine slipped one loop of rope over his shoulders, put the other looped rope into his hand, then laid an oar on the mud.  “Now, go; the rushes will hold you when you get there,” she said sharply.

With light, cautious movements Phil stepped out on to the oar, balancing himself like a tightrope dancer, and because he was so small and light he passed in safety where a heavier person would have been quickly submerged.

Katherine stood up in the boat paying out both coils of rope.  Her face was ghastly white, and her heart was beating to suffocation.  She had not felt like this that day when she ventured her life on the ice to save Jervis Ferrars in the flood.  But that had been her own danger, this was her brother’s, and therein lay the difference.

“Landed!” cried Phil, in a quavering tone of triumph, as he planted his bare feet firmly in the rushes, which, happily, were so matted together that they would not let him through.  Then he stooped, and Katherine heard him talking to the poor wretch caught in the mud beyond.  “Now, let me slip this over your arm.  That’s right; we’ve got you safe enough, and they are English ropes, strong enough to pull a carthorse out of a bear pit.  You mustn’t struggle, though, however much you feel like it.”