He looked across the boat at her, and an almost paralyzing dread filled his heart. For himself he could be brave, for himself death had no terrors but for his child!
A horrible vision rose before him. He saw her lying stiff and cold, with glazed eyes and drenched hair. Was there to be a yet more terrible separation between them? Was death to snatch her from him? Ah, no that should never be! They would at least go down together.
The vision faded; he saw once more the fair, eager face, no longer pallid, but flushed with excitement, the brave eyes clear and bright, but somewhat anxious. The consciousness that everything depended on him helped him to rise above that overmastering horror. He was once more his strongest self.
The rudder had been left on the beach, and it was only possible to steer by the oars. He dismissed even the thought of Erica, and concentrated his whole being on the difficult task before him. So grand did he look in that tremendous endeavor that Erica almost forgot her anxiety; there was something so forceful in his whole aspect that she could not be afraid. Her heart beat quickly indeed, but the consciousness of danger was stimulating.
Yet the waves grew more and more furious, rolling, curling, dashing up in angry, white foam “raging horribly.” At length came one which broke right over the little boat, blinding and drenching its occupants.
“Another like that will do for us,” Said Raeburn, in a quiet voice.
The boat was half full of water. Erica began to bale out with her father's hat, and each knew from the other's face that their plight was hopeless.
Raeburn had faced death many times. He had faced it more than once on a sick bed, he had faced it surrounded by yelling and furious mobs, but he had never faced it side by side with his child. Again he looked at the angry gray-green waves, at the wreaths of curling white foam, again that awful vision rose before him, and, brave man as he was, he shuddered.
Life was sweet even though he was harassed, persecuted, libeled. Life was sweet even though his child had deserted his cause, even though she had “cheated herself into a belief.” Life was infinitely worth living, mere existence an exquisite joy, blank nothingness a hideous alternative.
“Bale out!” he cried, despair in his eyes, but a curve of resoluteness about his lips.