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.
He cries, “Rosa! Rosa!” and swims high and strong. “Rosa! Rosa! Rosa!”
He is near it. He cries, “Rosa! Rosa!” and with all the energy of love and life flings himself almost out of the water, and catches hold of the nearest thing on the raft.
It was the dead man's leg.
It seemed as if it would come away in his grasp. He dared not try to pull himself up by that. But he held on by it, panting, exhausting, faint.