She procured a piece of spun yarn from the booby hatch, triced her skirts up to her waist, and, unseen by the sleepy anchor watch forward, went down the side on a rope's end belayed to a pin. There was a brisk wind blowing in from the open sea, and a short, crispy wave motion with which she must contend; but she struck out bravely for the beach.
"I am coming!" she called wildly. "I am coming—coming!"
Skilled seamen and fishermen are often deceived in the look of a surf viewed from seaward, and many a boat's crew that hopes to beach safely is caught and half drowned in a furious turmoil that can be seen only from the shore. This mad girl had no advantage of such experience, and probably would not have been influenced by it had it come to her. She swam vigorously at first, then rested awhile on her back, and went on, swimming till tired, and floating until rested.
But, at a hundred yards from the beach, she found conditions which precluded these spells of rest. The seas broke over her, and floating was impossible. She was forced to expend her strength. Then the spun-yarn belt loosened, and her skirts embarrassed her movements; it became more and more difficult to make headway. All she could do was to keep her head above water, while the aching pain of fatigue attacked her limbs, and the bitter salt water flung into her mouth by the spiteful seas choked its way down her throat, and into her lungs. Struggling weakly, and more weakly, she sank beneath and remained until consciousness was nearly gone; then the back wash of the undertow brought her to the surface, and with the one breath of air she procured came another inrush of water. Barely moving her limbs now, she went under again; and when next she appeared she had ceased to struggle, or breathe, or think.
Once more she went under, and when she came to light the surf was rolling her up the beach, and dragging her back—an inert, lifeless form, with eyes wide open and staring, and a wealth of golden hair wrapped round the pale and wasted face. A final heave of the pitiless sea threw her face downward on a fringe of rocks at high-water mark. One large stone caught the body at the waist line, and the head sank down beyond it until the forehead rested on another. Thus supported, the chin sank, the mouth opened, and the water from her lungs issued forth in a tiny stream and went back into the sea, which, having killed her, now left her alone.
But the cold rain still pelted her.
A mile away a thing crawled out of a cave—a mindless creature in the form of a man, a disorganized organism that looked into the morning sky with lightless eyes and meaningless smile. Emaciated and begrimed, with hair and beard to his shoulders, clad in what had once been shirt and trousers, but were now a flimsy covering of rags, he presented but one human attribute beyond his meaningless smile: the articulate voice.
He began to move, in a swift walk that soon increased to a jog trot and then to a run. Straight as a path may go, over rocks, hills, and marshy ground, down the declivity to the sea, went this smiling creature, pausing at times to look into the sky and murmur, "Zenie, come back!"
There was something yellow on the beach, right in his path, and at the same swift run he approached it. He stood silently over the quiet form of the dead girl, looking at it with smile unchanged, but with the beginning of expression flitting and twitching over his gaunt features. Then he stooped and turned the body over, bringing to view the pale, damp face.