Ah, he was stopping at last, and yes, slowly, very slowly rising. The return to daylight had begun, but—what a journey lay before him: those endless miles of water, thousands of millions of tons of liquid crystal between him and air. Could he hold out, would his breath last? No, not unless he hurried, and a sudden desperate feeling of anxiety seizing him, he began to fight, his hands tearing at the dense green wall above him. Frenzied, he fought, heart and lungs well-nigh bursting, and in his head the loud, wild clanging of bells; then, suddenly, the desire to struggle ceased, and in its place he felt a sense of rest and dreamy content. In his head, now strangely clear and light, a voice began to sing—only one verse, that of a music-hall ditty, last heard at a soldiers' "sing-song" in Dutch Gethsemane. "I would I were a kipper in the foam," it repeated for the hundredth time. Well, that's what he was—in the foam, at any rate; but a kipper—-a kipper... "I would I were a kipper in the foam."
He must think this out; it was clear as daylight really—daylight—light—light; and then with a sudden stunning roar the mists of death were torn asunder and the veil of water gone.
Slowly back from death's gates he came, his dazzled eyes blinking at the fathomless blue above, and labouring lungs gulping down the salt evening breeze. It seemed hours that he lay there, though but a minute in all had passed since his leaving the ship's side, hours of perfect peace and rest; and then suddenly strength came rushing back, and with it consciousness of his own being. A faint wonder at first, a chaos of mingled remembrances, and then sequence of ideas and full realisation of his surroundings. With a thrust of his foot he raised his head and shoulders above the water and looked about him; there, a mile or so away, floated the great grey shape of the Dunrobin Castle, a faint haze of smoke showing above the scarlet funnels, her decks black with figures, all faces turned to where he lay. And yes, that was a boat being lowered down her side, and thereupon the last cloud of mist lifted from his brain and he remembered what he had set himself to do.
Again he looked around, and saw some distance away a white object, with pole attached, looming gigantic against the sky, as it rose and fell to the lift of the waves. Striking out, he swam towards it, and, seizing the cork circle, held on, his eyes searching the water about him, and then, with an exclamation, let go and struck out to where a black object had appeared for a moment above the surface and disappeared. Reaching the spot, he waited, peering down, until it again slowly rose, and a steel claw shot up from the depths, gripped his foot, and under went Hector in the hold of a drowning man. Then up once more, the two interlocked, till wrenching his arm free, Graeme beat on the other's head, and the frenzied struggling ceased. Then throwing himself on his back, and clutching the man's coat-collar, he slowly towed his prize back, and, reaching the buoy just as his strength was failing, held on gasping, the other's head falling forward into the water, where it lay.
For a minute Graeme remained contemplating him, and then hauling him up beside him, looked closely into his face.
"Dead, I think," he muttered, "and God knows I hope so. Anyway, I've saved what's left of you. I'm a hero now, thanks to you, you drunken sweep," and despite circumstances hardly calculated for mirth, something seemed to tickle Graeme, for he suddenly burst out laughing.
Suddenly he stopped, with a startled look in his eyes. "Now what was that?" he murmured. "I could have sworn something touched my foot." He looked down, and below him saw hanging a dark shadow: a dull eye was fixed upon his, and then the shadow was gone, hung poised for a moment, and whirling round, came back. A monstrous shape gleamed white through the green beneath him—a savage tug, and the burden he was holding was nearly torn from his grasp, and then became strangely light, trailed loose in the water, now no longer clear.
For a second, Graeme was seized with wild terror, a loud shuddering shriek burst from his lips and went echoing across the sea; a hoarse shout of encouragement, the rattle and bang of feet upon boards, coming in instant response from the boat rushing onwards. Well its crew knew the meaning of that cry, knew also that their efforts might be all in vain, and where rescuer and rescued now floated nothing might be found save a few torn rags and a swirl of bloody water.
With this vision before their eyes, they bent themselves to their work; rough hands closed on the great oars, and corded muscles stood out on forearms, till the heavy boat rushed through the water and foam flew up from her bows. But the shriek was not repeated, for already rage had conquered fear in Hector's heart, and with rage came not only the fierce determination to hold on to that which he had won, but to grapple with and destroy this new enemy who had dared to attack him.
Feverishly he sought for a weapon, and in his pocket found a small knife. With eyes as wicked as those beneath him he peered down, his arm drawn back to strike. On came the shape once more, down went Hector's hand, a curse escaping him as the enemy turned and fled. "Damn you!" he shouted to his burden, "but for you I'd go after him, I can't leave you, though; I've sworn to get you back and I will. Come on, come on!" he shrieked.