As he sank he heard the head-master say: “Luke Sparrow—first prize”; he saw the glitter of the Mayor’s grand chain. All his school life rushed backward through his mind, and then—he was flinging down a rattle on the nursery floor, and the matron’s voice was saying: “Poor little ‘Returned Empty.’ He won’t even play with his rattle.”
“I’m really drowning now,” he thought. “The fools are right. This is my past life.”
“What does he want?” said the matron’s voice. “Who is he calling?”
Then—something burst in his brain, and in flaming letters of living fire a name illumined the icy blackness.
“Miriam! My wife! Miriam, my Love, my life! Good God, I can’t leave her!... Miriam, I’m coming! Hold on, I am coming!”
The weeds had him this time, but he fought like a madman.
“Miriam! Belovèd!”
His lungs were bursting, but he kept out the water. Tons weight pressed down his hands, but he lifted them.
“Miriam, my Love! I am coming!”
The sun reappeared, a pale disc—no, by God! a dead face!