ver him
a sickening consciousness that he was going down. He dropped, hanging
like a bulldog to Chatelard's knees, but he knew he had lost the game.
He gathered himself momentarily, determined to get on his feet once
more, and had almost done it, when sounds of approaching voices mingled
with the scuffle of their feet and their quick breathing. Before Jim
could see what new thing was happening, Chatelard had turned for one
alert instant toward the port side, whence the invading voices came.
He was cut off from the stairway, caught in the stern of the yacht, his
weapon gone. He gave a quick call in a low voice to the boat below,
stepped over the taffrail and then leaped overboard.

Propped up on an elbow, dazed and half blinded, blood flowing down his
cheek, Jim stretched forward dizzily, as if to follow his disappearing
enemy. He heard the splash of the water, and saw the rowboat move out
from under the stern, but he saw no more. He thought it must have
grown very dark.

"Blest if he didn't jump overboard hanging on to that marlinespike!"
said Jim stupidly to himself. And then it became quite dark.

When Jimsy regained sight and consciousness, which happened not more
than three minutes after he lost them, he found himself supported
affectionately against somebody's shoulder, and a voice--the Voice of
all voices he most loved--was in his ears.

"Here I am, dear. Do not die! I have come--come to stay, if you want
me, James, dearest!" And bending over him was a face--the very Vision
of his dream. "Look at me, speak to me, James, dear!"

The voice was a bit hysterical, but the face was eloquent, loving,
adoring. It was too good to be true, though Jim was disposed to let
the illusion prolong itself as far as possible. He put up his hand and
smoothed her face gently, in gratitude at seeing it kind once more.
Then he smiled foolishly.

"It's great, isn't it!" he remarked inanely, before thinking it
necessary to remove his head. Her face was still the face of
tenderness, full of yearning. It did not change. She took a
handkerchief from her pocket and carefully pressed it to his cheek and
chin. When she took it away, he saw that it was red.

"Lord, what a mess I'm making!" he exclaimed, trying at last to sit up.
As he did so, it all came back to him--the flying shadow, the gun, the
struggle. He leaned over to peer again through the crossed wires of
the deck railing, down into the water. He turned back