The Texas man began driving desperately on the oars.  He heard the heavy rush of the skipper’s feet in the deepening water.  Tedge’s voice became a bull-like roar as the depth began to check him.  To his waist, and the slow skiff was but ten yards away; to his great shoulders, and the clumsy oarsman was but five.

And with a yell of triumph Tedge lunged out swimming.  Whoever the fugitive, he was hopeless with the oars.  The skiff swung this way and that, and a strong man at its stern could hurl it and its occupant bottom-side up in Au Fer Pass.  Tedge, swimming in Au Fer Pass, his fingers to the throat of this unknown marauder!  There’d be another one go—­and nothing but his hands—­Bill Tedge’s hands that the shrimp camps feared.

Just hold him under—­that was all.  Tread water, and hold the throat beneath until its throbbing ceased.  Tedge could; he feared no man.  Another overhand stroke, and he just missed the wobbling stern of the light skiff.

He saw the man start up and raise an oar as if to strike.  Tedge laughed triumphantly.  Another plunge and his fingers touched the gunwale.  And then he dived; he would bring his back up against the flat bottom and twist his enemy’s footing from under him.  Then in the deep water Tedge lunged up for the flat keel, and slowly across his brow an invisible hand seemed to caress him.

He opened his eyes to see a necklace of opalescent jewels gathering about his neck; he tore at it and the phosphorescent water gleamed all about him with feathery pendants.  And when his head thrust above water, the moment’s respite had allowed the skiff to straggle beyond his reach.

Tedge shouted savagely and lunged again—­and about his legs came the soft clasp of the drifting hyacinth roots.  Higher, firmer; and he turned to kick free of them.  He saw the man in the boat poling uncertainly in the tide not six feet beyond him.  And now, in open water, Tedge plunged on in fierce exultance.  One stroke—­and the stars beyond the boatman became obscured; the swimmer struck the soft, yielding barrier of the floating islands.  This time he did not lose time in drawing from them; he raised his mighty arms and strove to beat them down, flailing the broad leaves until the spiked blossoms fell about him.  A circlet of them caressed his cheek.  He lowered his head and swam bull-like into the drift; and when he knew the pressure ahead was tightening slowly to rubbery bands, forcing him gently from his victim, Tedge raised his voice in wild curses.

He fought and threshed the lilies, and they gave him cool, velvety kisses in return.  He dived and came up through them; and then, staring upward, he saw the tall, purple spikes against the stars.  And they were drifting—­they were sailing seaward to their death.  He couldn’t see the boat now for the shadowy hosts; and for the first time fear glutted his heart.  It came as a paroxysm of new sensation—­Tedge of the Marie Louise who had never feared.