Somehow it flashed across Rosamond’s understanding; she realized her awful danger. She half arose in the water and shrieked aloud at the top of her voice:
“Help! help!”
On rushed the logs! The negro in the boat, half convinced that he had seen a ghost in that one swift glimpse of a death-white face and long, dark, streaming hair, which for a brief space confronted him, paused in the act of rowing, and uttered an imprecation.
“Gor a’mighty! what dat?” he exclaimed. “‘Pears like thar’s a woman—a white woman—or a ha’nt! Don’t jis’ know which a one, but ’twas one or t’odder, sho’!”
He guided his boat dexterously around the side of the small raft, but not in time to avert the threatened calamity, for with a mad rush the logs dashed onward, striking poor Rosamond full in the head with a blow which might have felled an ox. Without a cry or a moan, she sunk swiftly out of sight, and all was still.
The negro, trembling like a leaf, had witnessed the catastrophe, just a moment too late. He fastened his boat to the raft and sprung into the water.
“I isn’t gwine ter sit here and see no woman drowned,” he muttered as he dived beneath the surface.
A moment later; then the water was agitated, and once more the negro arose on the dark bosom of the water, grasping in his arms the unconscious form of Rosamond Arleigh.
With some difficulty he succeeded in placing her in the bottom of his boat, and getting in himself, began to pull for dear life, but not to the shore that she had left. He was afraid of being punished for allowing the lady to drown, and he firmly believed that she was dead.
He made up his mind in a moment. He would go on to New Orleans. There were no more obstacles now in the way of his raft, which would glide swiftly on into the lake, to be towed over by some schooner. He determined, therefore, to convey the body to New Orleans, and have it buried by the authorities. Perhaps it could be managed so that no questions would be asked, and he would not be punished for his carelessness.