Yet one terrible question only occupied his mind as he got the sail under control, and as the struggling boat, preserved from overturning only by the way which she had on her, began to right herself—Raymonde! Had she been swept out—for they had been at a fearful angle? No, she was still at her post, clinging to the tiller, gasping, and white as death. But she had not lost her head, and that had saved them. She knew as well as her lover that to keep the helm down was their one chance of avoiding being swamped by the great green seas that were all setting in fury towards the island, and bearing them, half full of water as they were, at each plunge a little nearer to the rocks. Without a word, except her name, uttered in something between a sob and a curse, La Vireville threw himself too on the groaning tiller, and for a few minutes they stood there side by side, staggering with the oscillations of the maddened craft, with the strength of both their bodies bent to one end—to keep that bar of wood, and with it the rudder, as it should be, against the malignant will of the storm. This was their true betrothal, handfasted by the tempest, and, as they would never have known it on the golden and enchanted island, among the gorse, they knew without the interchange of a word, in the howling wind, the pelting, stinging rain, with the water they had shipped swirling about their feet, that they were one indeed.
And presently the boat began to drive forward more violently. They were abreast of Les Autelets by this time, those fantastic pinnacles that on a sunset evening were things of wonder, now black and sullen amid the flying spray. Above them, too near for safety, frowned the rocky walls of the island, magical no longer (save with an evil magic), but sinister beyond belief. And soon they would come to Brechou, the satellite islet, between which and Sark runs a race so strong that no boat can live in it. And there were the sunken rocks, impossible to avoid now. At any moment they might be dashed on to one of them. Moreover, the boat was so full of water that there seemed almost as much danger of her sinking under them as of her being swamped or overturned.
"One of us must bale!" shouted Fortune in Raymonde's ear. "You, I think."
She obeyed him instantly, and abandoning the tiller and his side, crawled forward through the water, found a baling tin and set to work. And the man who saw that fine and unquestioning obedience knew for a moment the most bitter regret that the human heart can hold. Why had he been so mad as to come, as to bring her? He had risked his treasure, so newly found, so inexpressibly dear—risked it (and that was the worst) without need, and was now to lose it. For all this effort seemed but postponing the inevitable end. . . . But at least the salt water and the rain had washed him clean of the traces of that long infatuation—yes, and of the light loves of his youth. Now he was hers only, and he and no other man would go down with her under the greedy, hissing waves and share her sleep. . . .
Meanwhile she toiled there, crouched in the bottom of the boat, her wet hair blown in streaks across her face, while he kept the boat's head as much to the seas as he dared, only easing the helm on the approach of a wave that seemed heavy enough to drive her bows under. But immediately afterwards he would luff right into the crest of the wave, and then as their labouring progress was thereby checked, must put the helm up again for a second, to get the sails full once more, lest the boat should roll over into the trough. It was a task calling for a stout heart and the nicest judgment, and never by a word, nor even by a look, did Raymonde de Guéfontaine, unceasingly working also, distract him or show a sign of fear.
In such tension time scarcely exists, and it would have been hard for Fortuné to say how long he had battled with the immense hostility so suddenly arrayed against them, nor how much water Raymonde's aching arms had, with almost mechanical action, thrown overboard, before it began to seem to him that the smoother sea which followed every three vehement waves or so was of longer duration. Was it possible that the wind was abating? Only then, with the dawn of the first real ray of hope in his heart, did Fortuné become conscious too that with the lessening of the squall the island on their lee had disappeared, blotted out by the pall of mingled mist and rain which enshrouded them also. Perhaps they were still near it for all that? But since the roar of the breaking surf was no longer audible, it struck him that they must be drifting away from Sark, borne by one of those currents, perhaps, of which the boatman had spoken.
"The worst is over, I think," he shouted to Raymonde. She nodded, stopping her baling for a moment to put back her dripping hair, and smiled—it was like a star coming out in a wet sky.
And even as Fortuné shouted he realised that an ordinary tone would have carried to her ear. The uproar had ceased—nay, the wind had dropped almost dead; he could hardly get the jib to draw. They seemed to be motionless in a white silence, though doubtless they were moving faster than they knew. For an instant he thought of hoisting the mainsail again, then decided against it. Of what use advancing when they could see nothing and had no idea of direction? The sea was still agitated, lifting up countless plucking hands in uneasy bravado, but there was no danger in that. So he left the tiller and stooped over Raymonde.
"That is enough. You have the better of it now, brave heart! My darling, my darling, how wet you are, and how cold!" He pulled her to him, and opening the breast of his soaked redingote made her pillow her head there. She shivered a little and clung to him, and a strange, cold, remote happiness descended upon them both as they drifted on, physically and mentally spent, in a sort of limbo between death and life—neither ghosts nor yet fully sentient, floating in a dream that was not a dream, and a reality that counterfeited illusion.