In the very spirit of my defiance, I was calling up forces to work and fight for me, forces that faint-heartedness and fear could never have conjured to their aid.
On,—on I battled,—going with the rush,—holding back a little,—and easing out, and out, all the time toward the Rock.
Half an hour passed;—perhaps an hour,—for I lost count of time and distance in my struggling. But, at last, battered and half-smothered, yet still crying defiance to everything, I found myself rising with a mountainous sea and bearing straight upon The Ghoul. As I was lifted up, I strained my eyes toward the teeth of the rock.
Joe Clark,—that Hercules of men,—was still hanging on desperately:—no hope in his heart, but loth as ever to admit defeat, even to the elements.
With tremendous force, I was thrown forward. As the wave broke, I flashed past Joe in the mad rush of water. I grabbed blindly, feeling sure I should miss,—for it was a thousand chances to one,—but I was stopped up violently. I tightened my clutch in desperation. I pulled myself up, and clasped both hands round the ledge of the rock, clinging to it precariously, my nails torn almost from my fingers. My hands were touching Joe's. My face came up close to his. Almost he lost his hold at the suddenness of my uncanny appearing.
He shouted to me in defiance, and it surprised me how easily I could hear him, despite the hiss and roar of the waters. I could hear him more easily than I had heard Rita on the beach at Neil Andrews', so long, long ago.
"My God! Bremner,—where did you come from? What d'ye want?" he shouted.
"I want you, Joe," I cried, right into his ear. "Rita sent me for you,—will you come?"
"It ain't no good," he replied despairingly;—"nobody gets off'n this hell alive."
"But we shall," I yelled. "Rita wants you. She loves you, Joe. Isn't that worth a try, anyway?"