She laughed in a high, not unmusical key, and suddenly dipping her oars, began to propel the boat swiftly through the water. Rowing shows a graceful girl off to advantage, and my companion was richly endowed in this particular. Her little russet shoes were firmly braced, the short skirt revealing a few inches of tapering, tan-stockinged legs; her brown hands gripped the oars firmly, and as she swayed forward and backward with the rhythmic strokes I was conscious of a feeling of admiration for her prowess. In a few moments we had rounded a bend, and here I saw a line stretched across the river, with smaller lines depending from it into the stream. The girl glanced back over her shoulder, dipped one oar and adroitly piloted the boat toward a certain hook, before she spoke.
"I belong up yonder—for the summer," she said.
I followed her short gesture, and discovered upon a hill to my right what I took to be a brick church, with a brick dwelling near it.
As I turned to make reply I saw that something was happening. The girl was doing her best to haul in one of the sunken lines, but the hidden force beneath the surface was combatting her strength fiercely. Before I could offer assistance she had loosed her hold, and instantly the line shot out and tightened, swaying this way and that, cutting the water silently.
"I believe I have a whale!" she declared, in big-eyed seriousness, shifting her position and kneeling before taking up her task afresh. "No, don't help me yet"—as I made a forward movement—"it's lots more fun to land one's own fish!"
She bent again to the vibrating line, while I held the boat steady and eagerly awaited developments.
"I'm from Kansas City," she flung over her shoulder all at once, "and I'm spending the summer with my uncle, the Rev. Jean Dupré—Father John, the villagers call him. I am Beryl Drane."
The catastrophe cannot be told in detail. It may have been partly my fault, for my guard was lax at the moment. Before I realized what had happened Miss Drane was gone and I was in the water clinging to the upturned boat. A sucking, gurgling whirlpool was moving down the stream, and the cable line had disappeared. For a moment a cold horror crept to my vitals and chilled me so that I could not move. Then my duty swept over me with a swift rush, and, letting go the boat, I dived desperately. Madly I swept my arms to left, right, everywhere, grasping blindly for the touch of flesh or clothing. Dimly I seemed to realize that I was in a measure responsible for the accident, and that I must find the lost girl. Back and forth I fought through the water savagely, my lungs hurting, my head throbbing. I could not give up. I had to find her. She was there, somewhere in that silent, treacherous element. Into my chaotic mind leaped the thought that perhaps she had risen to the surface. Instantly I ceased my efforts and rose. Dashing the streaming drops from my eyes and mouth I gulped in a deep breath, and glared around despairingly. Silence; solitude; a shining, disc-like spot where the reflection of the sun lay, and a dozen feet off the glistening bottom of the boat. That was all. A man's length to the south I saw some bubbles rise and burst. There can be no bubbles without air. Maybe—
Resurgent hope filled my breast as I plunged downward again, striking out with all my might. I grasped a sodden something. I opened my eyes. The water was clear and the sunlight filtered dimly through it. A confused shadowy shape confronted me. I could get no outlines. An instant later I touched a hand, and knew it was Beryl Drane. A conception of the truth came then. When the fish, or whatever it was, had dragged her overboard, she had become entangled in the lines, and the thing which had power to pull her from the boat likewise had power to hold her below the surface while it struggled to escape. I clasped her in my arms, gave a tug, and together we shot upward. I looked at her as we reached light and air. She was limp, and to all appearance perfectly lifeless. Her lips had a bluish tinge, and were parted the least bit. Her eyes were half closed; she did not breathe.
Filled with foreboding which trembled on the verge of certainty, I swam for the shore. The distance was short, and presently I was struggling up the slippery mud bank with the senseless form of the girl. My mind had been busy while I was swimming. Should I stop on shore and attempt resuscitation, or should I hurry on to the priest's house, just up the hill? I decided on the latter course as the most expedient, as the delay would be practically nothing, and proper restoratives could be had at the house. There probably was a road. Straight up the wooded slope I dashed. My exertions in the water had tired me, and now as I made my way through the dense undergrowth up the steep hill I was conscious of intense physical fatigue. But I pressed grimly on, with a dread in my heart which far outweighed any physical weakness.