"My child, my child!" came the agonized voice of the father. "Never think of me, if you can save her."
Hemstead's nature was anthracite, and now glowed at white heat in his grand excitement. He was no longer a man, but a giant, and would have ruined everything, snapped his oars, dragged the oar-pins from their sockets, thus rendering his massive strength utterly useless, had not the cool, wary ex-sailor taken command of the little craft, and insisted on seamanship. Under his skilful direction the student was like a powerful engine, with a steady, measured stroke, and the boat fairly flew, until their oars struck floating ice, and then they had to slacken up, for to strike a mass of ice at their speed would be to sink at once.
"Steady now," cried the ex-sailor. "You pull; I will stand and steer."
Their boat was roughly grazed several times, but glided through without serious injury.
"Now or never!" cried the oarsman; "we're sinking."
Alice hid her face on her father's breast. Life had grown strangely sweet during the brief time since, at Hemstead's voice, hope had revived; and it seemed a bitter thing to perish almost within the grasp of rescuing hands.
"Oh! come!" groaned the father. "Great God! this is hard."
With a despairing cry she heard the water rush and gurgle around her, and closed her eyes, not expecting to open them again in this world. But strong hands grasped and lifted her drenched, helpless form tenderly into the boat.
With mingled hope and fear she looked up, and by the lantern's light recognized Frank Hemstead.
"My father," she gasped.