But where was Lily? It scared him to find himself out of arm's reach of
her, forced back by the swell, and not to see her immediately when he
was able to look. He saw the launch--which of course was entirely
occupied in her rescue--and saw two white buoys floating, and
saw a line thrown, but nothing else, except the wild water that
buffeted him, and the moonless night overhead. And he remembered that
the river channel--indeed, Hobson's Bay in any part--was just as
dangerous as mid-Atlantic to one who could not swim. The thought
clutched him like a hand at his throat.

"Got her?" he yelled, in a fury of terror. "Got her? See her?"

He strained to make himself heard by the men on the launch in a way to
burst his heart. They shouted something that he could not understand,
and a line came whizzing past him. He caught it as it dropped, and soon
lessened the distance between them. Then he perceived a long boat-hook
stretching out into the darkness; it went up and down with the toss of
the boat like the fishing-rod of an impatient school-boy, and a few
yards beyond its reach, where it touched water, there was a dim smudge.
He knew it for the full cape of Lily's macintosh, outspread upon the
waves. They alternately rumpled and smoothed it, flapping it into all
shapes as they tossed and toyed with it; but, by the mercy of Heaven,
it had held her up. In the middle of the mass he could see her dear
little head hanging forward and downward, just under the surface, out
of which a larger or smaller speck of her white fascinator rose and
gleamed as each roll swung her up into the light of the boat's lamp
turned upon the spot. This told him that she was already helpless and
unconscious, although ten seconds had not elapsed since she went over.
God send that she had not struck anything--that her heart was not weak