The older boy caught him by the wrist.
"You'll be drowned. I'll go!"
Trevelyan's son shook him off. He threw back his head.
"I've swum double the distance," he shouted, "Anyhow, we'll all die here."
He balanced himself on the rower's seat. Then he raised his arms above his head before he sprang. The joy of the coming struggle was in the boy's eyes—the joy of testing his strength against the sea's forces.
He dived. The boat, lightened of his weight, rocked, sprang higher in the water and then righted. From the bow came the sob of a girl-child's terror.
Trevelyan's son rose, striking out for shore.
Cary and the elder boy watched him—even as they drifted seaward.
* * * * *
Trevelyan's son was gaining. The fight had been a long one and a hard one. The rain had lessened, but the wind and tide had carried him a quarter of a mile below the landing he had intended to make. His thoughts were growing disconnected. At first, he had only gloried in his own skill; then he thought of Scotland—he could scarcely have told why—and of old Mactier. Then he remembered Cary—and after awhile, he wondered if he had ever drank as much salt water before.