He was caught again. Sea-weed? No; white hands, catching at his throat, throttling him. Curse them! What matter they, while his wife waits. He fought on.
“My Love, I am coming!” He broke free and rose—rose—rose.
The sun—Great God!—the air!
He breathed, choked, gasped, breathed again; lay on the surface, and panted. His ribs seemed jammed upon his heart; but, as he breathed, they lifted. His lungs expanded; his sight cleared; his heart beat more steadily.
“Oh, belovèd! Miriam! Miriam! Are you there? All else is a dream, save our great love, my perfect, perfect mate.”
Slowly he turned and looked toward the shore.
Far away, so far away; but he could see the line of cliffs and the house—his home and hers—standing clear against the fir woods. The upper windows seemed on fire, as they reflected the gold of the sunrise.
He measured the distance between himself and the shore. Could he swim it?
He started a slow breast stroke, his eyes upon those flaming windows.
Then he remembered the telescope. He made out the balcony.