"No—no, Jack," she pleaded.
It was the first time she had ever called him Jack. The sky was threatening and the wind was growing stronger.
"Constance, dearest," he said tenderly, "there is no other way."
He sprang into the water and struck out with long powerful strokes for the shore.
As if conscious of its precious burden, the boat followed slowly and steadily, then more slowly, then in fitful jerks. They were half-way to the shore but Jack's strength was failing fast.
The sky grew darker, and there was a sullen roar of thunder. Constance knelt in the stern, took off her dress and shoes, and took down her hair. She slipped into the water just as the storm broke, and Jack was gasping when she swam up beside him.
"It's a cramp," he said weakly.
"I know. Can you slip the rope over your head?" She held him up while he obeyed. The sea was rising and she felt her strength to the full.
The boat drifted away and still holding him up she put the braids of her hair into his hands. As a drowning man will catch at a straw, he clutched it, then sank almost into unconsciousness, but still held with spasmodic grasp to the only hope within his hands.
It was too dark now to see the shore, but Constance struggled on, keeping his head above the water as best she could. She rested from time to time by floating and spending only strength enough to keep them from being carried out to sea, but she was rapidly becoming exhausted.