“Down there, in that walled-in trap, he fought a long fight with Death for the life that stood between him and the woman. He was not an expert swimmer, his clothes hampered him, he was already blown with his long race, the burden in his arms dragged him down, the water rose slowly enough to make his torture fit for Dantë’s hell.
“he fought a long fight with death.”
“At first he could not understand why this was so, but in glancing down he saw to his horror that he had not properly closed the lower sluices; in each some eight or ten inches remained open, so that the stream was passing out nearly half as fast as it came in. It would be another five and twenty minutes before the water would be high enough for him to grasp the top.
“He noted where the line of wet had reached to on the smooth stone wall, then looked again after what he thought must be a lapse of ten minutes, and found it had risen half an inch, if that. Once or twice he shouted for help, but the effort taxed severely his already failing breath, and his voice only came back to him in a hundred echoes from his prison walls.
“Inch by inch the line of wet crept up, but the spending of his strength went on more swiftly. It seemed to him as if his inside were being gripped and torn slowly out: his whole body cried out to him to let it sink and lie in rest at the bottom.
“At length his unconscious burden opened its eyes and stared at him stupidly, then closed them again with a sigh; a minute later opened them once more and looked long and hard at him.
“‘Let me go,’ he said, ‘we shall both drown. You can manage by yourself.’
“He made a feeble effort to release himself, but the other held him.
“‘Keep still, you fool!’ he hissed; ‘you’re going to get out of this with me, or I’m going down with you.’