off his coat, and sprung headlong into the boiling pool, 'rejoicing
in his might,' as old Homer would say.

Lancelot, forgetting his crutches, was dashing after him, when he
felt a soft hand clutching at his arm.

'Lancelot! Mr. Smith!' cried Argemone. 'You shall not go! You are
too ill--weak--'

'A fellow-creature's life!'

'What is his life to yours?' she cried, in a tone of deep passion.
And then, imperiously, 'Stay here, I command you!'

The magnetic touch of her hand thrilled through his whole frame.
She had called him Lancelot! He shrank down, and stood spell-bound.

'Good heavens!' she cried; 'look at my sister!'

Out on the extremity of the buck-stage (how she got there neither
they nor she ever knew) crouched Honoria, her face idiotic with
terror, while she stared with bursting eyes into the foam. A shriek
of disappointment rose from her lips, as in a moment the colonel's
weather-worn head reappeared above, looking for all the world like
an old gray shiny-painted seal.

'Poof! tally-ho! Poof! poof! Heave me a piece of wood, Lancelot,
my boy!' And he disappeared again.

They looked round, there was not a loose bit near. Claude ran off