She looked up; and by the flashing light he could see a trusting, loving smile upon her face. And he smiled back at her; a grave, beautiful look, fit to wear on his face in heaven. He helped her to the side of the vessel, away from the falling burning pieces of mast. Then for a moment he paused.
“If—Maggie, I may be throwing you in to death.” He put his hand before his eyes. The strong man lost courage. Then she spoke:
“I am not afraid; God is with us, whether we live or die!” She looked as quiet and happy as a child on its mother’s breast! and so before he lost heart again, he heaved her up, and threw her as far as he could over into the glaring, dizzying water; and straight leaped after her. She came up with an involuntary look of terror on her face; but when she saw him by the red glare of the burning ship, close by her side, she shut her eyes, and looked as if peacefully going to sleep. He swam, guiding the spar.
“I think we are near Llandudno. I know we have passed the little Ormes’ head.” That was all he said; but she did not speak.
He swam out of the heat and fierce blaze of light into the quiet, dark waters; and then into the moon’s path. It might be half an hour before he got into that silver stream. When the beams fell down upon them he looked at Maggie. Her head rested on the spar, quite still. He could not bear it. “Maggie—dear heart! speak!”
With a great effort she was called back from the borders of death by that voice, and opened her filmy eyes, which looked abroad as if she could see nothing nearer than the gleaming lights of Heaven. She let the lids fall softly again. He was as if alone in the wide world with God.
“A quarter of an hour more and all is over,” thought he. “The people at Llandudno must see our burning ship, and will come out in their boats.” He kept in the line of light, although it did not lead him direct to the shore, in order that they might be seen. He swam with desperation. One moment he thought he had heard her last gasp rattle through the rush of the waters; and all strength was gone, and he lay on the waves as if he himself must die, and go with her spirit straight through that purple lift to heaven; the next he heard the splash of oars, and raised himself and cried aloud. The boatmen took them in—and examined her by the lantern—and spoke in Welsh—and shook their heads. Frank threw himself on his knees, and prayed them to take her to land. They did not know his words, but they understood his prayer. He kissed her lips—he chafed her hands—he wrung the water out of her hair—he held her feet against his warm breast.
“She is not dead,” he kept saying to the men, as he saw their sorrowful, pitying looks.
The kind people at Llandudno had made ready their own humble beds, with every appliance of comfort they could think of, as soon as they understood the nature of the calamity which had befallen the ship on their coasts. Frank walked, dripping, bareheaded, by the body of his Margaret, which was borne by some men along the rocky sloping shore.
“She is not dead!” he said. He stopped at the first house they came to. It belonged to a kind-hearted woman. They laid Maggie in her bed, and got the village doctor to come and see her.