“Look,” I whispered—­pointing to the hat and book—­and then out to the boat.  I read his face in terror.  It grew slowly, deadly white.

“My God!” he said in a tone of awe.  Then shaking me from him, sprang up the bank, and his voice was something fearful as he shouted, as he ran, for help.

There were men laboring, two or three fields off.  I don’t know how long it took them to get to him, nor how long to get a boat out on the water, nor what boat it was.  I know they had ropes and poles, and that they were talking in eager, hurried voices, as they passed me.

I sat on the steps that led down the bank, clinging to the low railing with my hands:  I had sunk down because my strength had given way all at once, and I felt as if everything were rocking and surging under me.  Sometimes everything was black before me, and then again I could see plainly the wide expanse of the river, the wide expanse of the gray sky, and between them—­the empty, motionless boat, and the floating oars beyond upon the tide.

The voices of the men, and the splashing of the water, when at last they were launched and pulling away from shore, made a ringing, frightful noise in my head.  I watched till I saw them reach the boat—­till I saw one of them get over in it.  Then while they groped about with ropes and poles, and lashed their boats together, and leaned over and gazed down into the water, I watched in a strange, benumbed state.

But, by-and-by, there were some exclamations—­a stir, and effort of strength.  I saw them pulling in the ropes with combined movement.  I saw them leaning over the side of the boat, nearest the shore, and together trying to lift something heavy over into it.  I saw the water dripping as they raised it—­and then I think I must have swooned.  For I knew nothing further till I heard Richard’s voice, and, raising my head, saw him leaping from the boat upon the bank.  The other boat was further out, and was approaching slowly.  I stood up as he came to me, and held by the railing.

“I want you to go up to the house,” he said, gently, “there can be no good in your staying here.”

“I will stay,” I cried, everything coming back to me.  “I will—­will see him.”

“There is no hope, Pauline,” he said, in a quick voice, for the boat was very near the bank, “or very little—­and you must not stay.  Everything shall be done that can be done.  I will do all.  But you must not stay.”

“I will,” I said, frantically, trying to burst past him.  He caught my arms and turned me toward the boat-house, and led me through it, out into the path that went up to the grove.

“Go home,” he said, in a voice I never shall forget.  “You shall not make a spectacle for these men.  I have promised you I will do all.  Mind you obey me strictly, and go up to your room and wait there till I come.”

I don’t know how I got there.  I believe Bettina found me at the entrance to the garden, and helped me to the house, and put me on my bed.