“Don’t!” he cried brokenly. “I can’t bear to think of you—” He lifted his head sharply. “Isn’t it lightening up? Look! Can you see shore? We might be quite near.”
She peered out, leaning forward. “No; there’s nothing.” Her hand turned within his, released itself gently. “I’m not afraid,” she said, speaking clear and swift. “It isn’t that. But I’m—rebellious. I hate the idea of it, of ending everything; the unfairness of it. To have to die without knowing the—the realness of life. Unfulfilled. It isn’t fair,” she accused breathlessly. “Ban, it’s what we were saying. Back there on the river-bank where the yucca stands. I don’t want to go—I can’t bear to go—before I’ve known ... before....”
Her arms crept to enfold him. Her lips sought his, tremulous, surrendering, demanding in surrender. With all the passion and longing that he had held in control, refusing to acknowledge even their existence, as if the mere recognition of them would have blemished her, he caught her to him. He heard her, felt her sob once. The roar of the cataract was louder, more insistent in his ears ... or was it the rush of the blood in his veins?... Io cried out, a desolate and hungry cry, for he had wrenched his mouth from hers. She could feel the inner man abruptly withdrawn, concentrated elsewhere. She opened her eyes upon an appalling radiance wherein his face stood out clear, incredulous, then suddenly eager and resolute.
“It’s a headlight!” he cried. “A train! Look, Io! The mainland. It’s only a couple of rods away.”
He slipped from her arms, ran to the boat.
“What are you going to do?” she called weakly. “Ban! You can never make it.”
“I’ve got to. It’s our only chance.”
As he spoke, he was fumbling under the seat. He brought out a coil of rope. Throwing off poncho, coat, and waistcoat, he coiled the lengths around his body.
“Let me swim with you,” she begged.
“You’re not strong enough.”