The doctor had already thrown off his coat, and was throwing aside his boots.  He had not waited for her last words; he was not sure that it was Philip Alston; but he knew that some fellow-creature was perishing almost within reach of his arm.  He was now running down the trembling bank, and in another instant had plunged into the boiling, roaring, furious flood, and was swimming toward that wildly rising and falling silver head, which shone like a beacon, through the lurid light.  It was hard to keep anything in sight.  He was a strong swimmer, but his full strength had not come back, and the fury of the waves was swirling trees like straws.

After that one involuntary appeal, Ruth was silent.  Her heart almost stopped beating as she realized what her cry had done.  A woman’s mind acts with marvellous quickness when all she loves is at stake.  As in a lightning flash she knew that she had sent her lover to risk his life for her foster-father, without knowing what she did.  What she would have done had there been time to hesitate she could not tell, dared not think.  It must have been a bitter choice, this risking of her lover’s life against the certainty of her father’s death.  But now she realized nothing, felt nothing, except that the desperate die was cast.  She did not notice that the others followed as she flew after Paul to the river’s very brink.  The earth had ceased quivering, but the shores were still crumbling under the crushing blows of the maddened waves.  The thick, dark water coiled unheeded about her feet, as she stood silent, straining her eyes after her lover as he swam toward that silver head which still rose and fell with the waves.  She did not move when she saw a gigantic cottonwood lean, uprooted and tottering.  She did not utter a cry when it fell behind him, cutting him off and hiding him, so that neither he nor the silver head could be seen from the land.  She stood as if turned to stone, waiting—­only waiting—­hardly hoping that it had not carried them both down.  She began to weep softly, and her hands were suddenly and unconsciously clasped in silent prayer, when she saw him once more swimming—­still swimming—­but coming back around the top of the tree.

It had struck the little boat in its fall, sending it down to come up in fragments, but the man was left hanging to a bough, and it was toward him that Paul Colbert was struggling against the fury of the flood.  The tree hung to the bank by its loosened roots, but its trunk and branches were swaying wildly, fiercely tossed by the waves.  The man was sinking lower in the water, his strength almost was gone, and his hold was giving way, when Paul reached him.  The white head, turning, revealed Philip Alston’s face and Paul Colbert thought that he shrank under his touch.  Neither spoke for a moment; both needed all their breath to reach a higher bough.

“Let me help you,” gasped Paul Colbert.  “Try to climb to the next limb.  It is stronger and steadier.”