"Keep down, Tanya," he cried. "It's I--Philippe."
She obeyed him--in a fascination of surprise and terror.... Saw Zoya Rochal clamber from one boat to the other and rise.... Heard the reports of firearms ... saw Zoya's eyes widen, saw her clutch at her breast and stumbling, fall just behind Philippe who had run aft toward Hochwald, firing as he went.
Tanya hid her face in her hands for a second, then rose, watching the two men swaying in a deadly embrace. There was another shot from Hochwald's weapon, muffled against the body of Philippe, but he still struck and struggled, lifting Hochwald clear of the gunwale. As Tanya ran aft, Rowland fell half over the side, while Hochwald hung a moment, his face ghastly, feebly gripping for a hold and then disappeared in the green swirl of water astern.
Tanya caught at Rowland's shoulder and hauled him back into the boat and he sank into her arms, the smile still on his lips ... a smile that now twitched painfully ... for upon his soaking shirt above the breast was a dark spot--spreading rapidly.
"Tanya," he was muttering, "cast off--other boat--steer, Swiss Patrol----" And then his head fell forward and he was silent.
She gazed at him in anguish but laid him gently down and ran quickly forward. The boats were thrashing together dangerously and the other was half full of water. With difficulty she cast off the line ... Zoya lay upon it ... but at last she got it free and ran back to Philippe, who was lying where she had laid him, the water in the cockpit washing over him. She sat beside the tiller, raising his head in her lap, trying with her handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood from his wound. Was it to be death after all...?
"Steer--Swiss Patrol----" She caught at the sheet beside her, that Hochwald had pulled and fastened it to the cleat. A huge wave came over the bow and frightened her, but she grasped the tiller and headed toward the Swiss shore. The Swiss Patrol boat loomed larger--larger, but the other, the German boat, still came on, a white cataract at its bows.
She did not seem to care now. The rush of the waves--of the growing storm--roared in her ears, as though from a great distance. Before her out of the gray of the mist and rain came the loom of the shore. She heard the hails of men, they seemed to be all about her, but she knew not how to obey and only sat clinging to the tiller and to Rowland, whose head was against her body very pale and still....
She was aware of a boat along side of her, manned by men in smart uniforms--one of whom leaped over into her boat, gave one quick glance around and then at first gently and then with more force released the tiller from her hand.
"If the Fräulein will permit----" a voice said.