Then his heart stood still as a shrill scream rent the night—a woman’s scream of deadly horror—and he jerked his head around to find that his comrade was no longer there.
CHAPTER XIV
THE LAST DASH
Never will Stewart forget the stark horror of that instant; never afterward did he think of it without a shudder. It was one of those instants—fortunately few—which stamp themselves indelibly upon the brain, which penetrate the spirit, which leave a mark not to be effaced.
It was the flash of her white arm, as she sank for the second time, that saved her. Instinctively Stewart clutched at it, seized it, regained the box at a vigorous stroke, threw one arm across a handle, and raised her head above the water.
Her face was white as death, her eyes were closed, she hung a dead weight upon his arm—and yet, Stewart told himself, she could not have drowned in so short a time. She had been under water only a few seconds. Perhaps she had been wounded—but he had heard no shot. His teeth chattered as he looked at her, she lay so still, so deathlike.
And then he remembered that shrill scream of utter horror. Why had she screamed? What was it had wrung from her that terrible cry? Had some awful thing touched her, seized her, tried to drag her down?
Shivering with fear, Stewart looked out across the water. Was there something lurking in those depths—some horror—some unthinkable monster——
He shook himself impatiently; he must not give way to his nerves. Holding her face back, he splashed some water into it, gently at first, then more violently. She was not dead—she had only fainted. A touch on her temple assured him that her heart was beating.
He must have been unconsciously paddling against the current, for something touched him gently on the shoulder—a piece of driftwood, perhaps; and then he was suddenly conscious that it was not driftwood—that it was soft, hairy——
He spun around, to find himself staring down into a pair of unseeing eyes, set in a face so puffed and leprous as to be scarcely human.