imself over the gunwale
into the sea.

"Now," he said, "pull Mrs. Jeffreys in."

"God bless you; you are a brave man," said Thompson. "I shall remember
you if I live a hundred years."

But no one else said anything; perhaps they were all too much ashamed,
even then.

"I have only done my duty," Seymour answered from the water. "How far is
it to the shore?"

"About three miles," shouted Thompson. "But keep on that plank, or you
will never live through the rollers. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," answered Robert.

Then the boat passed away from him and soon vanished in the misty face
of the deep.

Resting on the plank which had saved the life of Mrs. Jeffreys, Robert
Seymour looked about him and listened. Now and again he heard a faint,
choking scream uttered by some drowning wretch, and a few hundred yards
away caught sight of a black object which he thought might be a boat. If
so, he reflected that it must be full. Moreover, he could not overtake
it. No; his only chance was to make for the shore. He was a strong
swimmer, and happily the water was almost as warm as milk. There seemed
to be no reason why he should not reach it, supported as he was by a
lifebelt, if the sharks would leave him alone, which they might, as
there was plenty for them to feed on. The direction he knew well enough,
for now in the great silence of the sea he could hear the boom of the
mighty rollers breaking on the beach.

Ah, those rollers! He remembered how that very afternoon Benita and he
had watched them through his field glass sprouting up against the cruel
walls of rock, and wondered that when the ocean was so calm they had
still such power. Now, should he live to reach them, he was doomed to
match himself against that power. Well, the sooner he did so the sooner
it would be over, one way or the other. This was in his favour: the tide
had turned, and was flowing shorewards. Indeed, he had little to do but
to rest upon his plank, which he placed crosswise beneath his breast,
and steered himself with his feet. Even thus he made good progress,
nearly a mile an hour perhaps. He could have gone faster had he swum,
but he was saving his strength.

It was a strange journey upon that silent sea beneath those silent
stars, and strange thoughts came into Robert's soul. He wondered whether
Benita would live and what she would say. Perhaps, however, she was
already dead, and he would meet her presently. He wondered if he were
doomed to die, and w