Her dear arms would be waiting. Her lips—her tenderness.
Could he last out? He swam feebly, but steadily.
As he neared the shore, a swiftly flowing current caught him. It held him stationary, and his strength was ebbing.
One chance remained. He might win through under water. He took a deep breath, dived, and disappeared.
Swift, quick strokes—“Miriam! Miriam!” Desperate work; but for her dear sake!
He rose at last. He was through the current and under the lee of the cliff. He could see the house no longer, but the zigzag path was there. His coat and his boots lay under the rocks.
He fought feebly with the water. His breath came in groans.
No; he could not do it, after all. Not another stroke. He must sink; he must give up, and sink.
He sank—and felt sand beneath his feet.
With a great cry he struggled through the water, reeled up the beach, and dropped like a log beside the rocks.