“But I shan’t leave you alone, and you’re not going to do that!”

Agatha smiled, but could only say, “I hope not!”

She forged ahead a little, and presently had another moment of fright on looking round and finding that Jim had disappeared.  He had suddenly dived, without giving her warning.  He came up a second later, puffing and spitting the bitter brine; but his face was radiant.

“Rocks and seaweed!” he cried.  “The land is near.  Come; I can swim and take you, too, easily.  And now I know certainly just which way to go.  Come, come!”

Agatha heard it all, but this time she was unable to utter a word.  Jim saw her stiff lips move in an effort to smile or speak, but he heard no voice.

“Keep up, keep up, dear girl!” he cried.  “We’ll soon be there.  Try, try to keep up!  Don’t lose for a moment the thought that you are near land, that you are almost there.  We are safe, you can go on—­only a few moments more!”

Poor Agatha strove as Jim bade her, gallantly, hearing his voice as through a thickening wall; but she had already done her best, and more.  She struggled for a few half-conscious moments; then suddenly her arms grew limp, her eyes closed, and her weight came upon Jim as that of a dead person.  Then he set his teeth and nerved himself to make the effort of his life.

It is no easy thing to strain forward, swimming the high seas, bearing above the surface a load which on land would make a strong man stagger.  One must watch one’s burden, to guard against mishap; one must save breath and muscle, and keep an eye for direction, all in a struggle against a hostile element.

The goal still seemed incredibly far, farther than his strength could go.  Yet he swam on, fighting against the heartbreaking thought that his companion had perhaps gone “down to the dim sea-line” in very truth.  She had been so brave, so strong.  She had buoyed up his courage when it had been fainting; she had fought splendidly against the last terrible inertia of exhaustion.

“Courage!” he told himself.  “We must make the land!” But it took a stupendous effort.  His strokes became unequal, some of them feeble and ineffective; his muscles ached with the strain; now and then a strange whirring and dizziness in his head caused him to wonder dimly whether he were above or below water.  He could no longer swim with closed lips, but constantly threw his head back with the gasp that marks the spent runner.

Holding Agatha Redmond in front of him, with her head well above the water and her body partly supported by the life preserver, he swam sometimes with one hand, sometimes only with his legs.  He dared not stop now, lest he be too late in reaching land or wholly unable to regather his force.  The dizziness increased, and a sharp pain in his eyeballs recurred again and again.  He could no longer see the land; it seemed to him that it was blood, not brine, that spurted from nose and mouth; but still he swam on, holding the woman safe.  He made a gigantic effort to shout, though he could scarcely hear his own voice.  Then he fixed his mind solely on his swimming, counting one stroke after another, like a man who is coaxing sleep.