“Don't be a fool! Stop that screaming,” he told her. “Can Bradish!”
“He is sick—he—he—is frightened,” she faltered.
“Come out here! Pull on that rope! Swing me in, I can't hold on here much longer. Do you want to see me drown?”
She came along the rail, clinging to it.
“No, not that rope! The other one! Pull hard!”
She obeyed, fighting back her fear. The davit swung inward slowly, and he managed to slide his legs up over the rail and gain the deck.
“Thank you!” he gasped. “You're quite a sailor!”
He had been wondering what his first words to her would be. Even while he swung over the yawning depths of the sea the problem of his love was so much more engrossing than his fear of death that his thoughts were busy with her. He tried to speak to her with careless tone; it had been in his mind that he would speak and bow and walk away. But he could not move when she opened her eyes on him. She was as motionless as he—a silent, staring pallid statue of astounded fright. The rope slipped slowly from her relaxing fingers.
“Yes! It's just the man you think it is,” he informed her, curtly. “But there's nothing to be said!”
“I must say something—”