"I'll make it—I'll make it—I'll make it," he repeated in semi-conscious determination. "How near now?" he gasped back to her.
"They have gained in all about fifty yards." She began to weep softly. It acted like a spur to his flagging strength. It was helpless womankind calling upon man for succor. His eyes felt like overripe fruit, ready to burst, and blue flashes of pain danced before them. Then all things looked black—a veil had fallen in front of him.
"I'll make it—I'll make it—I'll make it," his iteration sounded like a mocking echo flung back into his ears. "I must not sink," he asserted to himself. "Not until I have saved Trusia," his thoughts were becoming incapable of coherence.
"Aboard the Bronx. Aboard the Bronx." His voice sounded a long way off. His movements were becoming feebly automatic. He was sure a maliciously grinning horseman was reaching out for Trusia, though it was impossible to see him.
"Now?" he gasped.
"Only five yards away," she answered calmly.
It is easy to die, easier to drown, when there is no escape.