‘Where are you?’ he shouts.
‘Here! here! Help, for God’s sake, help!’ shouts the man in the water. ‘I cannot hold out! I’m going!—the water’s a-dragging of me down! Help! help!’
Quick as thought, Bess tears her shawl off, and gives it to her husband.
‘God have mercy on me!’ cries the man, struggling fiercely to raise himself above the crackling, treacherous ice. ‘Lord forgive me!’
At that moment George, clutching his wife’s hand firmly to support himself, throws the shawl across the thinly frozen water. With a wild despairing cry the man flings out his hand and clutches it. A moment more and he is dragged ashore.
He is faint with exertion, and gasping, and he can scarcely stand.
‘Give me some brandy, quick!’ he murmurs. ‘The damned villain’s nearly put my light out—curse him!’
‘Hush!’ cries George. ‘Thank God for your safety.’
Bess, trembling in every limb with terror, has been feeling in her pockct. Dreading lest George should fall ill, she had, like the loving, thoughtful little woman she always was, put a small bottle in her pocket, and had it filled in the morning.
The half-drowned man seizes it, and gulps the contents down. Then he turns to his preserver and peers into his face. Directly he can discern his features he starts back. His teeth are still chattering with the shock of the immersion, as he gasps out, ‘George Heritage!’