I remembered the shout of Achilles, and its effect.  But could I pretend to shout like the son of Peleus, aided by Pallas?  No, certainly:  but then I needed not the shout that should alarm all Asia militant; a shout would suffice, such as should carry terror into the hearts of two thoughtless young people, and one gig horse.  I shouted—­and the young man heard me not.  A second time I shouted—­and now he heard me, for now he raised his head.

Here, then, all had been done that, by me, could be done:  more on my part was not possible.  Mine had been the first step:  the second was for the young man:  the third was for God.  If, said I, the stranger is a brave man, and if, indeed, he loves the young girl at his side—­or, loving her not, if he feels the obligation pressing upon every man worthy to be called a man, of doing his utmost for a woman confided to his protection—­he will at least make some effort to save her.  If that fails, he will not perish the more, or by a death more cruel, for having made it; and he will die as a brave man should, with his face to the danger, and with his arm about the woman that he sought in vain to save.  But if he makes no effort, shrinking, without a struggle, from his duty, he himself will not the less certainly perish for this baseness of poltroonery.  He will die no less:  and why not?  Wherefore should we grieve that there is one craven less in the world?  No; let him perish, without a pitying thought of ours wasted upon him; and, in that case, all our grief will be reserved for the fate of the helpless girl, who now, upon the least shadow of failure in him, must, by the fiercest of translations—­must, without time for a prayer—­must, within seventy seconds, stand before the judgment-seat of God.

But craven he was not:  sudden had been the call upon him, and sudden was his answer to the call.  He saw, he heard, he comprehended, the ruin that was coming down:  already its gloomy shadow darkened above him; and already he was measuring his strength to deal with it.  Ah! what a vulgar thing does courage seem, when we see nations buying it and selling it for a shilling a day:  ah! what a sublime thing does courage seem, when some fearful crisis on the great deeps of life carries a man, as if running before a hurricane, up to the giddy crest of some mountainous wave, from which accordingly as he chooses his course, he describes two courses, and a voice says to him audibly, “This way lies hope; take the other way and mourn for ever!” Yet, even then, amidst the raving of the seas and the frenzy of the danger, the man is able to confront his situation—­is able to retire for a moment into solitude with God, and to seek all his counsel from him!  For seven seconds, it might be, of his seventy, the stranger settled his countenance steadfastly upon us, as if to search and value every element in the conflict before him.  For five seconds more he sate immovably,