She choked more than once as the seas repeatedly broke over us, allowing scant time to catch a breath, and I raged with a fury that was perhaps childish, to realize how unable I was to shield her against their lashing.
All this while we had been drifting with the rollers, and must be drawing near the shore.
Eagerly I watched my opportunity, when upon the crest of a billow, to strain my water-soaked eyes toward where it should be.
Painful though my vision had become, thank Heaven! I saw the blessed shore—it was also close at hand, though before I could hope to gain its friendly shelter the worst struggle of all must be gone through with; for the deadly sea puss forms where the retreating undertow meets the incoming waves, and riotous war ensues.
And when, crowned with victory, I should stagger out of the foamy yeast, clasping in my arms that form so precious, would there still be a sweet spirit within that earthly tenement, or might my embrace but hold the lifeless clay of my best beloved?
Always must it remain more or less of a mystery how I reached the shore.
I remember the struggle, and how hopeless it seemed when the sea puss had me in its whirling grasp—how futile my endeavors appeared, no matter how madly I strained.
Then there came a change—I had been, as it were, plucked as a brand from the burning—a roller freed us from the undertow and tossed us shoreward.
My feet touched bottom—it was but a secondary anchorage, and then I was borne off again, but somehow it rekindled hope that had well-nigh died.
Again I watched my chance—again I felt that magic thrill, and bursting into a supreme effort planted my toes in the shifting sand, holding my own against the rush of the receding water, holding the painted buoy and its precious burden, which had broken loose from the rope.