ushed forward, remorselessly swooped down
upon them! This time the boat was completely swamped.

"I will at least die fighting!" thought Raeburn, a despairing, defiant
courage inspiring him with almost superhuman strength.

"Trust to me!" he cried. "Don't struggle!" And Erica who would naturally
have fallen into that frantic and vain convulsion which seizes most
people when they find themselves in peril of drowning, by a supreme
effort of will made no struggle at all, but only clung to her father.

Raeburn was a very strong man, and an expert swimmer, but it was a
fearful sea. They were dashed hither and thither, they were buffeted,
and choked, and blinded, but never once did he lose his presence of
mind. Every now and then he even shouted out a few words to Erica. How
strange his voice sounded in that chaos, in that raging symphony of
winds and waves.

"Tell me when you can't hold any longer," he cried.

"I can't leave go," returned Erica.

And even then, in that desperate minute, they both felt a momentary
thrill of amusement. The fact was, that her effort of will had been so
great when she had obeyed him, and clung with all her might to him, that
now the muscles of her hands absolutely would not relax their hold.

It seemed endless! Over the cold green and white of the waves Raeburn
seemed to see his whole life stretched out before him, in a series
of vivid pictures. All the long struggles, all the desperate fights
wreathed themselves out in visions round this supreme death struggle.
And always there was the consciousness that he was toiling for Erica's
life, struggling, agonizing, straining every fiber of his being to save
her.

But what was this paralyzing cold creeping over his limbs? What this
pressure at his heart? This dimness of his eyes? Oh! Was his strength
failing him? Was the last hope, indeed, gone? Panting, he struggled on.

"I will do thirty more strokes!" he said to himself. And he did them.

"I will do ten more!"

And he forced himself to keep on.

"Ten more!"

He was gasping now. Erica's weight seemed to be dragging him down, down,
into nothingness.

Six strokes painfully made! Seven! After all nothingness would mean
rest. Eight! No pain to either, since they were together. Nine! He
should live on in the hearts of his people. Ten! Agony of failure! He
was beaten at last!

What followed they neither of them knew, only there was a shout, an
agony of sinking, a vision of a dark form a