mockery of its dying.

On the surface she was swung across seeming great distances, till a
strong arm out of the night and the vastness of things seized her, and
the tension of the struggle passed from her limbs, leaving a sense of
appeasement as sweet as sleep. She heard a man's voice directing her, and
obeyed without understanding. Now the sea supported her like a soft and
pleasant bed, she had no fear and little consciousness. A few stern words
buzzed in her head like bees--'Sink your arms! Don't try to breathe when
we're under! Keep your mouth shut!' They were very absurd: they could
have nothing to do with her; but she had heard them somewhere, and she
obeyed.

The man lay well back in the water, with little more than his chin and
lips above the surface, his left hand, twisted in the woman's hair,
rested in the nape of her neck, sustaining her with scarcely an effort.
An ocean swimmer from his early boyhood, great waters had no terrors for
him, and when he found the drowning girl he knew that all would be well,
provided the ship's boats were successful in their search.

The girl was very tractable: she lay perfectly still. He looked into her
pale face; her eyes were wide open, staring straight up at the feeble
stars. Every minute or so he cried aloud, or whistled a shrill call
between his teeth, but the action did not disturb the flow of his
thoughts. Despite the peculiarity of his position, he had drifted into a
strange mood of introspection. Why had he done this thing? What was the
girl to him that at the first sight of her danger he should have
forgotten his philosophy of self, his pride in his contempt for his kind,
and his fine aloofness? She was no more in his life than any other of the
four hundred strangers on board. The act of leaping into the sea had been