The thing, being larger than himself and partly out of water, was
drifting to leeward faster than himself.

He stared and trembled, and at last it came nearly abreast, black,
black.

He gave a loud cry, and tried to swim towards it; but encumbered with
his life-buoy, he made little progress. The thing drifted abreast of
him, but ten yards distant.

As they each rose high upon the waves, he saw it plainly.

It was the very raft that had been the innocent cause of his sad fate.

He shouted with hope, he swam, he struggled; he got near it, but not
to it; it drifted past, and he lost his chance of intercepting it. He
struggled after it. The life-buoy would not let him catch it.

Then he gave a cry of agony, rage, despair, and flung off the life-buoy,
and risked all on this one chance.

He gains a little on the raft.

He loses.

He gains: he cries, "Rosa! Rosa!" and struggles with all his soul, as
well as his body: he gains.

But when almost within reach, a wave half drowns him, and he loses.