Frantically she tore at the detaining clutch above her.  Something gave way.  She felt the sharp sting of it, and then she plunged into the current, and swept down with it, and in the edge of the pool struck out with all her last strength until her feet touched bottom, and she could stand.  She wiped the water from her eyes, sobbing in her breathless fear—­her mighty hope.  Peter had reached the shore.  He had dragged himself out, and had crumpled down in a broken heap—­but he was facing her, his bright eyes wide open and questing for her.  Slowly Nada went to him.  Until now, when it was all over, she had not realized how helplessly weak she was.  Something was turning round and round in her head, and she was so dizzy that the shore swam before her eyes, and it seemed quite right to her that Peter should be alive—­and not dead.  She was still in a foot of water when she fell on her knees and dragged herself the rest of the way to him, and gathered him in her arms again, close up against her wet, choking breast.

And there the sun shone down upon them, without the shade of a twig overhead; and the water that a little while before had sung of death rippled with its old musical joy, and about them the birds sang, and very near to them a pair of mating red-squirrels chattered and played in a mountain-ash tree.  And Nada’s hair brightened in the sun, and began to ripple into curls at the end, and Peter’s bristling whiskers grew dry—­so that half an hour after she had dragged herself out of the water there was a new light in the girl’s eyes, and a color in her cheeks that was like the first dawning of summer pink in the heart of a rose.

“We’re a’most dry enough to go to Mister Jolly Roger, Peter,” she whispered, a little thrill in her voice.

She stood up, and shook out her half dry hair, and then picked up Peter—­and winced when he gave a little moan.

“He’ll fix you, Peter,” she comforted.  “An’ it’ll be so nice over here—­with him.”

Her eyes were looking ahead, down through the glory of the sun-filled forest, and the song of birds and the beauty of the world filled her soul, and a new and wonderful freedom seemed to thrill in the touch of the soft earth under her feet.

“Flowers,” she cried softly.  “Flowers, an’ birds, an’ the sun, Peter—­” She paused a moment, as if listening to the throb of light and life about her.  And then, “I guess we’ll go to Mister Jolly Roger now,” she said.

She shook her hair again, so that it shone in a soft and rebellious glory about her, and the violet light grew a little darker in her eyes, and the color a bit deeper in her cheeks as she walked on into the forest over the faintly worn foot-trail that led to the old cabin where Jolly Roger was keeping himself away from the eyes of men.

CHAPTER III