gone
down.

The Padrone, who had seemed paralysed until now, came as suddenly to
life as Sophy had turned to stone.

"_Il dottore!_" he shouted imperiously. "_Vaa cercare il dottore!_"

Now Peppin had reached the spot about which the boats were gathered. He
trod water with head bent low, peering intently into the blue depths.
The boats hung near. The boatmen shouted more than ever. They pointed
downwards. "_L'e lit! L'e lit!_" they cried eagerly. All at once the
sailor dived. It was as if he turned a somersault in the water. His
bare, wet legs flashed up into the sunshine as he plunged.

Long seconds went by ... an eternity of minute-long seconds. Yet through
this horror of blank pause, wherein time seemed suspended ... which
might have been a day or an aeon ... Sophy stood waiting for Peppin to
bring her husband back to her. She was sure that Peppin would not come
back without him. The primordial woman in her had recognised primordial
man in the stout sailor. The feminine at its limit waited on the
completion of virility. What she could not do, Peppin was doing. So she
waited while cycles seemed to pass. She had lost her sense of time.

A sudden roar went up--from the shore, from the waiting boats. The dark
blob of Peppin's head had appeared above water. Then it was submerged
again for an instant. But now the boats were closer--arms reached out.
He was caught--sustained by those eager arms--he and his burden.
Ah!--they were trying to lift what Peppin grasped into a boat--but that
huge, flaccid body dragged the boatedge over--down--down to the very
water. A mass of clutching hands grasped here, there. Now it was half
over the edge--but the boat lay on her side. The great, naked body
glistened white like a monstrous fish in the sunlight. Now ... now ...
all together!

There was another roar. Then the sailor also was hauled aboard.... The
boat pulled for shore....

XLIII

They lifted him out and laid him on the warm beach. The crowd stood
aside, respectful and expectant. All eyes turned to Sophy. They were
waiting for the thrilling moment when the stone image would spring to
life, shriek and cast itself upon her husband's body. There was a hush
as in a theatre, just before the eagerly expected catastrophe breaks
into a scream or dagger-stroke. But the moment failed of its zest.
Slowly, as though moving in its sleep, the tall figure went over to the
drowned man, knelt down beside him, laid a white hand o