The Pilot, meantime, endeavored to introduce a few drops of brandy between the lips of the patient.  Fritz stood trembling like an aspen leaf and deadly pale; he regarded these operations as if his own life were at stake, and not the patient’s.

“There remains only one other course to adopt, Mrs. Wolston,” said Becker, “you must endeavor to bring your daughter to life by means of your own breath.”

“Only tell me what to do, Mr. Becker, and, if every drop of blood in my body is wanted, all is at your disposal.”

“You must apply your mouth to that of your daughter, and, whilst her nostrils are compressed, breathe at intervals into her breast, and so imitate the act of natural respiration.”

Stronger lungs than those of a woman might have been urgent under such circumstances, but maternal love supplied what was wanting in physical strength.

The Pilot had turned the prow of the pinnace towards home; he felt that, in the present case at least, the comforts of the land were preferable to the charms of the sea.

“This time it is not my breath, but her own,” said Mrs. Wolston.

“Her pulse beats,” said Becker; “she lives.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed Fritz and Willis in one voice.

A quarter of an hour had scarcely yet elapsed since the patient’s first immersion in the sea; but this brief interval had been an age of agony to them all.  As yet, her head lay quiescent on her mother’s bosom, that first pillow, common alike to rich and poor, at the threshold of life.

The%signs of returning animation gradually became more and more evident; at length, the patient gently raised her head, and glanced vacantly from one object to another; then, her eyes were turned upon herself, and finally rested upon Fritz and Willis, who still bore obvious traces of their recent struggle with the waves.  Here she seemed to become conscious, for her body trembled, as if some terrible thought had crossed her mind.  After this paroxysm had passed, she feebly inclined her head, as if to say—­“I understand—­you have saved my life—­I thank you.”  Then, like those jets of flame that are no sooner alight than they are extinguished, she again became insensible.

As soon as they reached the shore, Fritz hastened to Rockhouse, and made up a sort of palanquin of such materials as were at hand, into which Mary was placed, and thus was conveyed, with all possible care and speed, on the shoulders of the men to Falcon’s Nest.  A few hours afterwards she returned to consciousness and found herself in a warm bed, surrounded with all the comforts that maternal anxiety and Becker’s intelligent mind could suggest.

Fritz was unceasing in his exertions; no amount of fatigue seemed to wear him out.  As soon as he saw that everything had been done for the invalid that their united skill could accomplish, he bridled an untrained ostrich, and rode or rather flew off in search of the land portion of the expedition.