A moment, and memory, grown acute in the death-agony, showed her pleasant scenes and soft home-pictures, children's faces, blazing fires, fair poetic dreams of beauty and use, Arthur and the to-come which was to have been so bright,—all to pass away for ever in the pitiless suction of those on-creeping waves.
Another moment, and she felt the crawling foam about her; a wave fell thundering even at their feet, throwing over them its cold salt spray; and the young girl moaned. There would still be time to escape, to return to life and its warm beauty. Would she draw back? A thousand times no. In the numbing of every faculty, in the passing away of every joy, that grasp of the slender arms grew only the mightier. She would save her friend if she could. If not, all she had left was to die with her. Like a black cloud that wave hung over them. What delayed its onward sweep? Adèle used to say afterward that it was a miracle, for if it had fallen they were lost, beyond the possibility of salvation.
But while they stood, their feet in the foam and that ominous cloud above them—for Margaret's impetuous rushing had ceased, and Adèle lacked power to drag her backward—there was a shout, a cry. Another of those long moments, and a strong arm was extended; they were drawn on to the dry sands, and even as they stood there shivering the mighty wave fell, sucking back into the watery waste that lay beyond the treacherous foam where their feet had been. Margaret fell back unconscious, while Adèle for the moment scarcely thought either of her or their preserver.
As she felt the solid ground beneath her feet and the cool air around her she fell on her knees. "Saved, saved!" she cried, and the labored hysteric sobs showed how terrible her excitement had been.
But then came other thoughts. Had they escaped the sea only to meet worse dangers? Who was this deliverer? She turned round to look at him. By the light of the moon, which still struggled through the clouds, she was able to see his face. There was about it a wildness that seemed to confirm her worst fears, and his arms were about Margaret—he was gazing into her face.
She did not seem to be aware of it. She was all but inanimate, for, although not alive to the terrible danger of her situation, Margaret had been exhausted by the struggle.
The sight aroused Adèle. Though her knees were trembling under her from fatigue and exhaustion, though her bosom was heaving with sobs that refused to be choked down, the brave little champion had still a work to do. Her friend was helpless; she must defend her.
Adèle got up, and showing a pale but resolute front touched the stranger on the arm. He turned to her with a sudden start and muttered apology for his neglect; he did not seem to have been aware of her presence, and as she caught a nearer view of the dark face, lined with suffering, convulsed with emotion, some suspicion of the truth began to dawn upon her mind.
A flutter of hope, more exciting than all the previous agitation, nearly choked her; the dignified little sentence in which she had intended, while thanking him for his timely assistance, to rebuke his presumption and recall him to a sense of his duty as a man and a gentleman, died away on her lips; she could only stammer out incoherently, "Who are you? For pity's sake tell me!"
The dark eyes which had been scanning the pale calm beauty of Margaret's face were turned on her. "I am her husband," he said simply; his voice trembled, he spoke with difficulty. "And you have saved her," he added softly. But this Adèle scarcely heard. She had turned away. She was passing as fast as her wearied limbs could carry her along the path that led to the road. She would leave them alone together, and—the cottage held her Arthur.