To the girl, that passage was never more than a dim memory.  Still partially dazed from the severe blow on her head, she closed her eyes as Hamlin stepped cautiously down into the stream and clung to him desperately, expecting each moment to be flung forward into the water.  But the Sergeant’s mind was upon his work, and every detail of the struggle left its impress on his memory.  He saw the dark sweep of the water, barely visible in the gleam of those few stars unobscured by cloud, and felt the sluggish flow against his legs as he moved.  The bottom was soft, yet his feet did not sink deeply, although it was rather difficult wading.  However, the clay gave him more confidence than sand underfoot, and there was less depth of water even than he had anticipated.  He was wet only to the thighs when he toiled up on to the low spit of sand, and put the girl down a moment to catch a fresh breath and examine the broader stretch of water ahead.  They could see both shores now, that which they had just left, a black, lumping, dim outline.  Except for the lapping of the water at their feet, all was deathly still.  Even the Indian fire had died out, and it was hard to conceive that savages were hidden behind that black veil, and that they two were actually fleeing for their lives.  To the girl it was like some dreadful delirium of sleep, but the man felt the full struggle.  There was a star well down in the south he chose to guide by, but beyond that he must trust to good fortune.  Without a word he lifted her again to his shoulder, and pushed on.

The water ran deeper, shelving off rapidly, until it rose well above his waist, and with sufficient current do that he was compelled to lean against it to maintain balance, scarcely venturing forward a foot at a time.  Once he stumbled over some obstruction, barely averting a fall; he felt the swift clutch of her fingers at his throat, the quick adjustment of her body, but her lips gave no utterance of alarm.  His groping feet touched the edge of a hole, and he turned, facing the current, tracing his way carefully until he found a passage on solid bottom.  A bit of driftwood swirled down out of the night; a water-soaked limb, striking against him before it was even seen, bruised one arm, and then dodged past like a wild thing, leaving a glitter of foam behind.  The sand-dunes grew darker, more distinct, the water began to grow shallow, the bottom changing from mud to sand.  He slipped and staggered in the uncertain footing, his breath coming in quicker gasps, yet with no cessation of effort.  Once he felt the dreaded suck about his ankles, and broke into a reckless run, splashing straight forward, falling at the water’s edge, yet not before the girl was resting safely on the soft sand.

Strong as Hamlin was, his muscles trained by strenuous out-door life, he lay there for a moment utterly helpless, more exhausted from the nervous strain indeed, than the physical exertion.  He had realized fully the desperate nature of that passage, expecting every step to be engulfed, and the reaction, the knowledge that they had actually attained the shore safely, left him weak as a child, hardly able to comprehend the fact.  The girl was upon her feet first, alarmed and solicitous, bending down to touch him with her hand.