Carey wondered later how long a time elapsed whilst they stood thus, intently watching.  It might have been for merely a few minutes, or it might have been for the greater part of an hour.  He never knew.

The spell broke at length suddenly and terribly, with a grinding crash that flung them both sideways upon the slippery deck.  He went down, still clinging instinctively to the rail, and the next instant, by its aid, he was on his feet again, dragging his companion up with him.

There followed a pause—­a shuddering, expectant pause—­while wind and sea raged all around them like beasts of prey.  And through it there came the sound of the engine throbbing impotently spasmodically, like the heart of a dying man.  Quite suddenly it ceased, and there was a frightful uproar of escaping steam.  The deck on which they stood began to tilt slowly upwards.

Carey knew what had happened.  They had struck a rock in that awful darkness, and they were going down with frightful rapidity into the seething, storm-tossed water.

He had never been shipwrecked before, but, as by instinct, he realised the madness of remaining where he was.  A coil of rope lay almost at his feet, and he stooped and seized it.  There had come a brief lull in the storm, but he knew that there was not a moment to spare.  Still supporting his companion, he began to bind the rope around them both.

She looked up at him quickly, and he saw her lips move in protest.  She even set her hands against his breast, as if to resist him.  But he overcame her almost savagely.  It was no moment for argument.

The slope of the deck was becoming every instant more acute.  The wind was racing back across the sea.  Above them—­very far above them, it seemed—­there was a confusion of figures, but the tumult of wind and waves drowned all other sound.  Carey’s feet began to slip on that awful slant.  They were sinking rapidly, rapidly.

He knotted the rope and gathered himself together.  An instant he hung on the rail, breathing deeply.  Then with a jerk he relaxed his grip and leaped blindly into the howling darkness, hurling himself and the woman with him far into the raging sea.

* * *

It was suffocatingly hot.  Carey raised his arms with a desperate movement.  He felt as if he were swimming in hot vapour.  And he had been swimming for a long time, too.  He was deadly tired.  A light flashed in his eyes, and very far above him—­like an object viewed through the small end of a telescope—­he saw a face.  Vaguely he heard a voice speaking, but what it said was beyond his comprehension.  It seemed to utter unintelligible things.  For a while he laboured to understand, then the effort became too much for him.  The light faded from his brain.

Later—­much later, it seemed—­he awoke to full consciousness, to find himself in a Breton fisherman’s cottage, watched over by a kindly little French doctor who tended him as though he had been his brother.